Ramblings

‘And so shines a good deed!’

2012-01-12T23:04:00.000Z

'And so shines a good deed'...remember the quote and who said it, come on you must remember it; rack your brains, well…can you recall?

Yes you’ve got it, it is indeed a quotation from the movie ‘Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’ starring Gene Wilder as the enigmatic and irrepressible Willy Wonka. The original book from which the Movie is derived was of course ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ by Roald Dahl.

The young boy Charlie Bucket has visited the chocolate factory and experienced its many awe inspiring wonders including the everlasting gob-stopper. Wonka gifts Charlie one of the gob-stoppers with the caveat that he mustn’t let his candy nemesis Mr Slugworth get hold of it as he would copy it for his own nefarious profit.

Any fan of the film will remember Wonka’s rant near the end at Charlie and the kindly Grandpa Joe, Wonka pulls the rug out from under Charlie by citing an illicit sampling of product by the boy and his grandfather as just cause to deem any contracts null and void, in short Charlie had won the greatest prize of his life, the Wonka chocolate factory, but Willie Wonka had whipped out the smallprint and lay Charlie’s dream in shreds.

The boy had a moral dilemma, should he spite Wonka (and also earn some cash) by selling the everlasting gob-stopper to old Slugworth, or should he simply return the wondrous piece of candy to Wonka as hence walk away back to his life of poverty and grind.

And so Charlie chooses the latter option and places the candy on the desk beside Wonka thus prompting the iconic quotation ‘And so shines a good deed!’

Of course we the viewers are left with a moral dilemma to struggle with, what would we do in the same situation, would we give him back his damn candy or would we run as fast as our little Charlie legs could carry us to find Slugworth to cut a deal.

I am of course going to tell you I would have done exactly what Charlie did, but then I have the benefit of hindsight and I already know the ending is a happy one for the boy, but what is this feature of the human psyche which embodies such nobility and kindness for our fellow man and woman, and more importantly why do some of us feel obligated to do good while other people appear, on the face of things, to be inherently evil?

I was once faced with my own gob-stopper type dilemma, read on to find out what happened...

From the time I was ten years old I ran errands for my mother to the local shop to buy the staple grocery items; bread, milk, sausages and the like. I pretty much followed the same routine every day, get home from school, drop my schoolbag and head down to the local shop for my mother. I usually went to the local Mace store on Belbulben Road in Drimnagh, South Dublin, which was run by a man called Peter Mahon and his wife (whose name escapes me right now, possibly Sylvia), I developed a relationship with Mr Mahon over the years and we were on first name terms, I was a regular in his store and even though I was just a kid he treated me with dignity and respect, well heck I was a paying customer after all!

On one particular day my Mam gave me ten pounds to head down to the Mace shop to get some milk and bread, she always had me wrap any money notes around a small coin to lessen the chance of losing them out of my pocket, times were tight and ten pounds went a long way back in 1977, I stuck the money my pocket and held onto it for dear life as I headed down Mourne Road to the shops.

I greeted Mr Mahon as usual as I entered the shop, he was a tall imposing man and always had a pen stuck behind his ear which made him look more important, he was constantly busy packing shelves, sweeping the floor or slicing ham behind the counter, he gave me a wink and a cheery hello as usual. I walked around the small shop and gathered my grocery items in my cradled arms before heading to the till where Mr Mahon was waiting to serve me, there were no barcode scanning in those days (God I am old) and he pressed the large buttons on his the big clunky cash register before the cash drawer finally opened with a loud ‘Ding’.

I reached into my pocket for the ten pound note and handed it over, it was still wrapped up around the ten pence coin, Mr Mahon smiled and started to count my change from the cash drawer as some more people walked into the shop, as usual he greeted them with gusto and dropped the mixture of coins and notes into my hand, as always I immediately stuck the money right down deep into my trouser pocket, bid a farewell to Mr Mahon and headed home.

My Mam was busy in the kitchen as I hauled the bag of shopping up onto the counter, I dutifully unpacked the items and folded the plastic canvas shopping bag and stuck it down the space beside the fridge, I was all done with my daily shopping task and as my Mothers beaming smile meant she was a happy camper, one last task was for me to give my mother the change, I reached into my pocket and pulled a mash of coins and some notes, I slapped it all on the counter for my Mam to put back into her purse.

I was about to turn and walk away when I glanced at the pile of money, immediately I caught an image of a man on one of the notes which I knew well, it was the unmistakable image of Jonathan Swift emblazoned on a red ten pound note, my eyes lifted to seek out my Mother, my heart started to beat faster and my face grew hot, I felt as if I had done something wrong, that somehow it was my fault that Mr Mahon had given me back the original tenner which I had proffered for the shopping!

My Mothers eyes smiled back at me ‘Would you look at that, Mr Mahon has given you back the ten pound note by mistake, now what do you think we should do?’. I can remember my instinctive thought process as clear as day, we simply had to give it back, it was in our DNA, and we both knew that anything other than this action would be a bad deed.

‘I should bring it back to Mr Mahon’ I answered, ‘Yes you should, now go ahead and get it done’ my Mother replied as she waved me out of the kitchen.

I grabbed the crisp new ten pound note and held it up my nose, oh it smelt so good, I took a ten pence piece and wrapped it up in the middle of the note, as good as it felt to hold it in my hands I knew this money belonged to someone else and I needed to return it to its rightful owner.

As I ran down Mourne Road towards the Mace store my mind was racing, would Mr Mahon wonder why I hadn’t come back sooner with the note, had he missed it yet, would he be angry with me in some way, would he reward me with some chocolate maybe or a pack of Golf Ball chewing gum?

I kept running but this time the note and coin were clasped in the middle of my small sweaty palms, I kept looking at it as I was running along, making sure it was still there, I was holding Mr Mahons money in my hand and I was not about to lose it!

I arrived at the shop hot and flustered and panting furiously, Mr Mahon looked happy enough as he served another customer; he glanced at me quizzically as I walked toward him.

I waited for the customer to walk away and then held up my open hand to Mr Mahon ‘This ten pound is yours Mr Mahon’, he stared at the note in my hand for what seemed like an eternity but didn’t speak, his face turned from that quizzical look to one of relief, he hadn’t know the note was missing but was obviously relieved to get it back.

H didn’t make a big deal of it at the time as I feel he wanted to keep the incident between the two of us (and my Mam).

He gently took the note from my hand and released the ten pence coin which he then handed back to me, he hit the button to open the cash register drawer and deftly slipped the ten pound note underneath the black plastic coin tray, I watched as Jonathan Swift disappeared amidst a bundle of assorted historical celebrities which were found on other notes, an array of Queen Maebhs from the one pound note, a decent number of the bald Scotus from the five pound note, a couple of Swifts and I thought I seen at least one image of James Joyce from the Blue twenty pound note but I couldn’t be fully sure.

He shut the till and with it, I thought, my prospect of any reward, the sweet anticipation of a chocolate dime bar in my mouth dissipated quickly, he then stood up and reached into his pocket and produced a bundle of notes. Mr Mahon slipped out a one pound note and held it out to me with a large smile on his face ‘and so shines a good deed’ he quipped as I hesitantly took the note from his hand, our eyes met and I knew I was Charlie Bucket to his Willie Wonka, my stomach was churning with excitement and all I wanted to do was run home and show my mother my crisp one pound note. I thanked Mr Mahon and turned on my heels to run home with him shouting after me that he would see me tomorrow as usual for my shopping.

And so a good deed was carried out on that fateful day, we did the right thing by giving back the money, it may have seemed easier to say nothing, to keep the money and reap the benefit of it, but we both knew that Mr Mahon was a hard working business man and that the right thing to do was hand him the money. Having carried out the good deed I felt liberated as I skipped up my street, of course the one pound note in my pocket helped to sugar coat things for me and certainly put an extra spring in my step.

Some people feel we live in a highly cynical world, a bleak society where a dog-eat-dog mentality prevails and a society where nobody has time to help one another.

Call me naïve but I simply don’t believe this is completely true, sure there is real evil in this world and no end of folks who would slit your ear off for a fiver, but I try to eclipse this evil by recognising all of the inherently good people around us, family, friends and strangers alike. People who are prepared to help you out in whatever way they can because they know that you would do the same for them.

I will sign off with a small story about another good deed I experienced recently. I had left some trousers into our local dry cleaners and they managed to lose them, they searched and searched and could not find where they had misplaced them, the unfortunate conclusion by both parties was that they would have to compensate me for the trousers, however I didn’t want the money I really just wanted my trousers back.

I called in to the dry cleaners one final time this week in the hope that they had found my items and guess what, well some kind lady had found them in her wardrobe, she knew they were not hers and she promptly brought them back to the cleaners. I was reunited with my favourite trousers and the cleaner did not have to fork out for a couple of new pairs, we were happy all round.

Another example of a good deed carried out by someone because it probably made them feel nice to do so, it made them feel good to be kind to another human being, just like I felt when handing the money back to Mr Mahon and how Charlie Bucket must have felt when he gently placed the everlasting gob-stopper back on Willie Wonka’s desk, ‘and so shines a good deed’. So doing the right thing can actually be cool, we need to remind ourselves of that, it’s good to be good.

So it’s your choice really, are you a Charlie Bucket or a Mr Slugworth? I know which one I would rather be, now where did I leave that Oompa Loompa wig!?!?

Alan Carroll

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Pall bearers

2011-12-13T14:00:00.000Z

We loitered outside the house with bent heads and hushed tones
While the pall bearers closed our hall door
And privately manoeuvred the coffin out of the small parlour room

Neighbours and friends had gathered, necks strained to see a little more

Seven brothers suited in black for reverence

With the oldest nephew making us eight

We took direction for lifting the heavy dead box

and lined ourselves up along the garden gate

In military style we swung it up to our embraced shoulders

It rested there for a moment while we accepted my father's weight

We shifted from foot to foot and searched for the cushion of our arms

and finally began to move in a measured and nervous gait

In silence and sunshine we thread the road

From house to church with jagged steps

Never showing the pain of the lifted box

As the wooden crate dug into our necks

The church door loomed as our journey ended

Signalling the end of our common goal

We handed him over to the waiting priest

Standing with holy water and incense to welcome his soul

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep: Over 250 Funeral Poems And Readings

Rosary

2011-12-09T17:33:00.000Z

My 12 year old knees grew sore from the gnarly floorboards
And the angelus bell had long stopped ringing
We assembled around the seemingly large double bed
All pious with hands a wringing

Five mysteries to fill the time
With Hail Marys recited like clockwork from my Father’s holy face
We playfully nudged each other’s elbows
As he asked God for his mercy, love and grace

The evening sunshine blinded us through the metal framed windows
As his rosary beads rattled with each passing prayer
We slyly opened our eyes to softly snigger
And to spy the bed dust floating in the air

And now I stand by his six foot mahogany box
And the priest recites the Rosary and anoints his eyes
Time stands still in the packed parlour room
And we slyly open our eyes to cry

Click Here for a Meditation And Yoga Certification Program!

Grave

2011-11-16T11:56:00.001Z

The rock hard marble and Celtic cross
with flower pots and fancy stones
dress and decorate your hallowed ground
where your flesh ran deep amidst your bones

In this yard of graves the trees stand bare
and each sad plot attests to it's losses
all neatly ordered and grid aligned
the rock hard marble and Celtic crosses

And why do we come to caress your name
and delve our hands amongst your flowers
and sadly hope to hear you speak
waiting for days, sitting for hours

Time to rise and leave this place
with thoughts of you written on my heart
till once again I can sit here and think
together forever yet always apart....

Dear Facebook...I'm preggers!!

2011-11-10T14:17:00.000Z

There are 750 million active users of Facebook worldwide, yes that's 750,000,000 users logging onto the world's most popular social media platform to share stories, feelings, photos, videos and do all other manner of exchanging information and interacting with friends, family and sometimes complete and utter strangers.

We have heard all of the statistics, founded in 2004 by a 5 year old Mark Zuckerberg, now worth a Gazillion dollars, soon to be used by every human being on the planet. Ok so I am being slightly facetious but you get the picture, this piece of software is a big deal, it's all things pervasive and invasive. What started out as a cool way to post your personal profile and your innermost thoughts on-line to your friends has become a social phenomenon, it's power and all encompassing girth straddles generations, your 14 year old son is on Facebook, so is your 35 year old sister, your 59 year old boss has a Facebook profile and your octogenarian grand aunt Gertrude is kicking it back once or twice a week with a cup of cocoa and a half hour catching up with her Grandkids.

Facebook is not just the preserve of teens or twenty somethings, neither is there a need to be a geek or technophile in order to get the most out of the platform, indeed it might be said (no data to back this up though) that real geeks probably shy away from Facebook and it's underbelly of prurience.
So the real beauty (or ugliness, depending on your disposition) of Facebook is in the fact that Mom, Dad and their teenage son could all be on the social network at the same time chatting and catching up with friends and relatives, it's long tentacles wrapping around each of them and entwining them and their contacts together in the social ether.

In my extended family there is a high level of Facebook usage amongst my 10 siblings and our 38 children, a decent few of the siblings have a profile and most, if not all, of their offspring over the age of 13 would use Facebook too.

Cousins catch up with cousins, sisters chat to brothers and there is a general exchange of family gossip, events and so forth, nothing mind blowing and rarely too controversial.

I have used the term 'crossing the Rubicon' a few times in my life without ever knowing the historical context of the phrase and where it came from, a couple of years I Googled the term, good old reliable Wikipedia gave me the following :

'Crossing the Rubicon is a metaphor for deliberately proceeding past a point of no return. The phrase originates with Julius Caesar's invasion of Ancient Rome (January 10, 49 BC), when he led his army across the Rubicon River in violation of law, thus making conflict inevitable. Therefore the term "the Rubicon" is used as a synonym to the "point of no return". Alea iacta est ("The die is cast"), which is reportedly what Caesar said during the aforementioned crossing of the Rubicon.'

So with that historical context firmly laid out I can safely say that I believe we have crossed the Rubicon in relation to how we use Facebook and the level and detail of information we post on the site for all to see.

Last week my niece, Belinda, posted a fuzzy photograph on her wall, no comment, just a photo, subtle and succinct. It was inevitable that one's curiousity was piqued as to the exact nature of the image, the Facebook thumbnail was small and you couldn't really figure out was it was without clicking on the image to open it. It quickly became evident that this image was a scan of a baby in utero and for that exact second of recognition the clarity and the simplicity of the message hit me like a ton of bricks, Belinda was pregnant! She posted no comment alongside the image, she knew no words would be needed, the visceral visuality of the message was delivered directly to your cerebral cortex and was processed in milliseconds, fait accompli!

And this is the point, Belinda wanted to deliver some good news to the masses, some wonderful information to share with her friends and family, she didn't want to send 50 text messages and emails, she didn't have the time (or phone credit) to call everyone, yet she wanted to spread the cheer to one and all. So the medium she chose to broadcast this deeply personal and joyful news was Facebook, pure and simple Facebook with it's open and candid format, tell the world how you feel, write it on your wall and hit the enter button, and that is it, done and dusted.

And the really amazing fact is the absolute reality that we are in the throes of a social media revolution, a couple of years back and Facebook was certainly not completely mainstream, in 2008 there were 100 million users, an absolutely massive number for sure, but fast forward to today and there again is that colossal number of users ; 750 million. To put some context on this let's consider that other great social club otherwise known as the Catholic Church, according to the Census of the 2011 Annuario Pontificio (Pontifical Yearbook), the number of Roman Catholics of the world is about 1.181 billion!

Wow, another global organisation with a massive membership across multiple countries and continents, but hang on, the Catholic Church has been recruiting members for the past 2000 years, ever since JC sacrificed himself on the cross for our sins the Catholic Church has been trying to expand it's reach while feverishly striving to hang on to existing members. In the crowded social media space Facebook competes with MySpace, Twitter and other platforms for the attention of their users, in the flesh and blood world where religion exists, and just like Facebook the Church spends considerable time and money competing with other religions to recruit, convert and retain followers. It will be interesting to see if the social media giant can usurp the Church in terms of members at some stage in the future!

So indeed we are in the midst of a paradigm shift in terms of how we use technology on a day to day basis to communicate to others various items of information, from the mundane 'I am feeling like a piece of crap today' to the much more important matter of announcing to the world that you are going to produce a new human being!
The Rubicon has indeed been crossed, there is no going back to the slow and low key nature of communications methods in the past. Today you can do a pregnancy test, get a result and share that news on-line within 30 seconds.

The real question is what comes next in terms of using social media in ones daily life?
Where is this all going, what happened to a good old fashioned chat over the phone or dare I suggest an actual social encounter in the flesh where you actually go and meet somebody to catch up on the comings and goings of life? Pressing and intriguing questions indeed!

Well that's it, this article is over, I am going to call my mother to talk to her and see how she is, how she is feeling and what she is planning for the rest of the week, maybe I will call in for a coffee..?

So I just called her house and my brother tells me 'she can't come to the phone, she is just updating her Facebook status, she will call you back later, or probably IM you during the week'!

Quick message for you :
If you liked the story I would be really happy if you helped share it with your fiends and followers via Twitter, Facebook etc.

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Thanks
Alan

Enda's glory..

2011-11-10T13:33:00.002Z

2010 was a mixed bag of a year for Enda Kenny, we watched the putsch against him as leader of Fine Gael unfold, and we then saw him win a vote of confidence as leader of his party.

During the year dark forces conspired in the quiet corners of Leinster house and various hostelries, strategies ruminated upon, deals struck regarding future ministerial portfolios and alliances, conversations centred around the concrete justification that this was in the best interests of the country, Enda was simply not up to the job of running the show and the party faithful and public at large shared this opinion.

In June 2010 Varadkar, Bruton, Coveney and the considerable cohort of deputies in support of their cause, publically declared their hand and espoused their moral motivation to remove Enda Kenny as leader of Fine Gael. Standing on the steps of Leinster house they threw down the gauntlet to Enda and his supporters, it was time to step down, the country needed strong leadership in these tumultuous times, Enda was simply not the man to lead the nation through these unprecedented and turbulent times! Most people agreed that Enda was an honourable guy, a nice guy but a bit too woolly and fuzzy around the edges.

Richard Bruton deftly assumed the position of Taoiseach-in-waiting, he began to wear the mantle with aplomb, growing in stature by the hour as messages of support flooded in from the party faithful and beyond. In the far corners of his mind Richard must have started to contemplate his pending glory, rubbing shoulders with the European elite as leader of his country, taking the reins of a nation in turmoil, cometh the hour cometh the man. In the background, away from the ever probing glare of the media, the young pretenders discussed strategies and ministerial briefs and most likely salivated over the pending political assignation of Mr Kenny.

I myself, having a prurient interest in the comings and goings of political life, didn't rate Enda very highly in terms of leadership, motivation and indeed strength of character. I felt during 2010 Enda was a 'dead man walking' in political terms, it was only a matter of time before the political hangman readied his noose to put paid to Enda's relatively short foray as leader of his party. I didn't rate his performances in the Dáil and on TV, he came across as wooden and contrived, one felt there was a puppeteer’s hand directing his every nuance and word.

I simply could not envisage this man attending the summit of leaders of the EU, I could not see Enda going téte-a- téte with Sarkozy or crossing swords with Merkel on the macro economics of the European Union. I thought Enda to a nice guy, a good lad from the bog, nothing to write home about, he didn't have much more time as leader, he had been a good 'filler' leader for Fine Gael but there was serious stuff coming down the line and it was now time to get their house in order. You could trust this man with your sheep but not your country.

And so on to the events of last week which have been nothing short of breath-taking in political terms, let's quickly take stock; the Cloyne report was finally published and we discovered that the Vatican apparently directed the hierarchy of the church in Ireland to keep quiet about the sexual abuse of Irish children by Irish priests, the report found the Vatican put the welfare of the church before the welfare of innocent victims of abuse, the contents of the Cloyne report are sad and reprehensible, the media reported the findings and we the public at large once again hung our ends in sheer emotional exhaustion at these latest revelations which exposed further the murky and entangled relationship between the Irish state and the Catholic church.

We shook our heads once again at this new example of how vulnerable children were abused and how a pervasive and perverse silence existed which kept the perpetrators free of recrimination or charge.
I myself felt angered and saddened as I thought of the victims of abuse and their families, I wasn't anticipating much of a response from government, I thought we would get some standard wringing of hands and some pious platitudes about the need to protect children. I braced myself for a vacuum of action, nothing would come of this, it would eventually pass into the record books as another tome detailing our twisted relationship with the Catholic church.

But last week something extraordinary happened in our country, something impossible, an event of epic proportions, something that had not been contemplated, Enda Kenny stood up as in the Dáil and made a statement as leader of our country and representative of its people, this was not the Enda Kenny of last year with carefully choreographed speeches and fudgy policy statements, this was Enda the warrior out to face down enemies of our state, this was Enda the invincible and this was Enda the unprecedented.

Enda started his speech in the Dail and you very quickly knew there was something huge happening, his visceral and surgical rendition of the wrong doings perpetrated by the Church and indeed the Vatican was instant and concise. Enda spoke about the 'dysfunction, disconnection, elitism and narcissism that dominate the culture of the Vatican to this day', he said that the Catholic Church needed to be 'truly and deeply penitent for the wrongdoing it perpetrated, hid and denied.'
He continued; 'Instead of listening to evidence of humiliation and betrayal, 'Mr Kenny pointed out that the Vatican's reaction had been to parse and analyse it, with the eye of a canon lawyer.’
Enda's voice was wrought with emotion and determination throughout his speech, the Dail chamber remained quiet as the deputies no doubt began to appreciate the fact that this was no ordinary speech, this was not a rendition from the Taoiseach whereby he would kick this thorny issue into touch.

Enda pulled no punches, his words stung like barbs and hung in the air like a thick dusty smoke which was not going to dissipate anytime soon, he quickly got into his stride and performed like a true statesman.

When Enda finally sat down having delivered his ground-breaking words he must have felt a sense of pride and dignity having faced down one of the most powerful organisations on the planet, a heretofore untouchable entity which in the past had literally held the state and its public servants and representatives in its paralysing grasp.

Like many others I felt a sense of justice having listened to Enda's delivery and also a sense that the state had grown up somewhat, this monologue heralded a coming of age for our country.

Colm O'Gorman, founder of the organisation 'One in Four' and himself a victim of sexual abuse at the hands of a catholic priest, aptly summed up the feelings of a nation when he referred to Enda's speech as 'ground-breaking and extraordinary and a speech that historians would hopefully refer to in the future as a defining moment when Ireland was offered the opportunity to become a Republic' and he poignantly added that he had hoped for a speech like this for the past ten years.

And so we bore witness to the transformation of this politician, a mere mortal man who decided to take the more difficult path and in doing so won a new born respect and gratitude from the citizens of this state and especially victims of abuse everywhere!

And one can't help wonder if Enda, before he delivered his speech, summoned up some divine inspiration from the good book; 'Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, it is he that doth go with thee' Book of Deuteronomy.

If you enjoyed reading this please do one (or all) of the following : leave a comment here on the blog, share this blog on your Facebook page, Tweet the link or maybe mail the blog to your friends, and if you want to hear about my next blog post simply click on the followers link on this page.

Thanks
Alan x

Two penny toffees and a loose cigarette please!

2011-11-09T10:36:00.000Z

When I was a small kid in the 1970s there was a little shop up the street in our little suburb of Drimnagh in South Dublin, Ireland. We called it 'the kiosk' and it sat in the roundabout in front of our church.The kiosk sold everything from cigarettes to ice-pops, popcorn and toffees, chocolates and shampoo, the list goes on and on. You never actually got to go into the kiosk, they served customers through a small window at the front of this funny little building, it didn't look much bigger than our kitchen (and our kitchen was not big believe me) but I yearned to see inside, I imagined there was a secret trap door in the floor which would lead you down a metal spiral staircase to a large basement, alas I never got to appease my curiosity.

My friends and I debated furiously as to whether there was a toilet in the kiosk, I contended that there had to be a loo in there, how could they last all day without going? My older brother Gerard told me that there was no toilet in there and they filled empty lemonade bottles with their piss, I somehow doubted this, I mean you should have seen the size of the opening of the lemonade bottles, it was very small opening and some of the staff in the kiosk were ladies and well, it wouldn't be easy logistically speaking!

The kiosk was run by Mr.Carter, he was a blind man who always wore a white housecoat, he had odd colour eyes, one of them looked like my large milky gullier marble, he seem to know absolutely everybody who came to the little window to buy something, Mr.Carter was incredible! It was agreed that he was as blind as a bat; but each and every time I ambled up to the kiosk shop window and asked for a orange ice pop, a Time bar or a packet of Indian Popcorn, he would immediately ask me how my mother was or my brother Derek, it never ceased to amaze me 'Me Ma is fine Mr Carter, so is Derek' I would utter in a bewildered tone.

Mr Carter was ably assisted at times by an elderly lady called Nancy,we called her Nancy Carter but she wasn't actually related to Mr.Carter as far as we knew, Nancy was a little more prickly than Mr.Carter, her patience was not open ended and she often scolded us for taking too long to decide on an orange ice-pop or a golly bar. She smoked like a chimney and constantly drank from a small red lemonade bottle and on certain days,when you approached the little serving window,you got a stale stench wafting from the little kiosk window, but all the kids liked Nancy, she was Ok and sometimes she would give you a nice smile and a wink.

In our local area Mr Carter was an institution, he was like a wise old sage living in a little hut up the street, he was always on hand with some nuggets of wisdom about the weather, mass times, funeral arrangements, when to take cough sweets for that husky throat and who was recently sent to or released from jail. Mr Carter knew everything about which girls were going out with which boys, what the English soccer scores were on a Saturday, which shampoo and conditioner you usually bought and what flavour block if ice cream you were sent to buy from the kiosk. His penchant for recognising your voice, matching it with your name, linking you with your siblings and family members and then offering up various nuggets of priceless information based on all of this data was absolutely stunning. This man was a walking memory bank with the ability to recall data in the blink of an eye (albeit a blind one), he had a mind which processed data like a dual core processor, long before dual core processors ever existed.

Sometimes my older brothers would send me up to the kiosk for various items with varied results, they asked to purchase a long stand, Mr Carter, on hearing my request would smile a wry smile and ask me to stand to the side of the window while he continued to server other customers, after a long while he would call me back to the window 'Young Carroll, tell your brothers there are no long stands in stock today', it was only after four of five times of falling victim to this ruse that I realised the joke was on me and both my brothers and Mr Carter were in on the trick!

There followed, over the course of a couple of years, several instances of me being caught out this way by Mr Carter and my brothers, they sent me for some really dodgy items ; a bucket of steam, a packet of button holes, a tin of black and white shoe polish, a rubber hammer and then a glass hammer and various other completely preposterous nonsensical items. Mr Carter played a blinder (excuse the pun) throughout these skits, he really belonged on the stage, his face never cracked a smile as he told me that he had just sold the last Sky Hook a few minutes earlier to one of my pals but if I hurried I could catch up with my pal and borrow the Sky Hook if I really needed it.

You have probably heard the joke (never uttered by me save for reference purposes) about the blind man who walks past the fish market and shouts out 'Good morning girls'? Well every evening at about ten minutes to nine Mr Carter would start his daily ritual of locking up the Kiosk, this entailed him affixing a large steel bar across the steel shutters at the front of the little shop, he would emerge from the side door of the Kiosk with the metal bar and proceed to feel his way around the outside wall until he reached the front windows. There was usually a small group of lads hanging around at the back of the kiosk and they always showed Mr Carter the utmost respect, 'Good evening lads' he would say as he locked up, 'Good evening Mr Carter' came the chorus back from the group of lads, no one ever called him Bill, it just wouldn't be kosher, his name was Mr Carter! When the shop was fully locked Mr Carter would emerge sans the white housecoat and shout to the boys hanging around at the back of the shop 'Goodnight lads, Goodnight Doyler, Goodnight Paggo'. Most times neither Doyler or Paggo were there but everyone played along, yes indeed Mr Carter was a paragon of respect, he simply commanded it!

Around this time in our area there were a spate of handbag snatches, the victims were mostly old ladies, the snatchers Modus Operandi was the same each time, he would hide in a bush or behind a tree in the front garden of a house and patiently wait for his prey to amble by, he would then jump out behind the old lady with a monstrous roar and grab her bag from her hands and scuttle off down the street. Most of the old ladies were rooted to the spot in shock each time it happened, after a while they would realise what had happened and a cycle of fear and upset would ensue, it really was a terrible time for the old ladies in our area. Sometimes they were upset because they had a little bit of money in the handbag, sometimes they cried because their favourite lipstick was in the bag, Mrs Brown cried because she had the severed leg of her dead dog Bingo in her bag, she carried it around everywhere for the past 2 years, it gave her comfort and it also smelled a but but hey it kept her happy. Mrs Doyle had a relic of St Oliver Plunkett in her bag which had brought her great luck over the years, in a small pocket in the inside of Mrs Rattigan's bag there was a old photo of a soldier, it was her husband Gerald who had been killed in Normandy during the second world war, when her bag was snatched she seemed to suffer the loss of her husband all over again, yes indeed these were tough times for the local blue rinse set, God love them.

Fr Burke announced during mass on Sunday that all handbag snatchers would go straight to hell, he practically guaranteed it 'Please spread the word to your friends and family' he roared in his thick guttural County Clare accent 'the fiend or fiends who are perpetrating these heinous acts will suffer the flames of hell', this was a scary priest and he meant every word, his big hairy arms were famous all over Drimnagh, finely honed from picking potatoes when he was a young man on the family farm, arms now reserved for putting young local lads into head locks when he caught them talking at the back of mass on Sunday morning.
I felt sorry for the handbag snatchers, if they were ever caught by Fr Burke they were completely screwed!

Everybody in Drimnagh was talking about the bag snatcher, who could it be, was it someone from the area, could it be someone who actually knew these old ladies, someone who had grown up amongst us, it couldn't be could it? My Dad said the snatcher was breaking the commandment 'Thou shalt not steal', Mr Hunt the local grocer said the snatcher should be tarred and feathered, one of our local Sisters of Mercy, Sister Rosaleen, visited lots of older people to explain how to try avoid falling victim to the snatcher. Sr Rosaleen has spoken to the local Garda Sergeant and he had given her some advice, she had written it down and made some photocopies for the local older ladies and the general public:

Tips for the ladies of the Parish:
1. Don't carry large amounts of cash in your handbag
2. Don't carry jewellery or anything which has a high personal value in your bag
3. If the snatcher grabs your bag just let it go, don't struggle as the snatcher may get violent
4. If you need to go out please go out with your friends, there's strength in numbers
5. Finally, let's try to be on the lookout for anyone selling second hand items such as watches or jewellery
6. If you have an older lady living near you please make sure they know about the bag snatcher and please help them understand what steps they can take to protect themselves

Sr Rosaleen asked some of us altar boys to post these pieces of paper into some letterboxes to get the word out there to the local ladies, I got Mourne road from the kiosk down to Brickfield park, Barry Browne got a chunk of Galtymore road, his brother Paul got the other chunk, and so lots of us spent our Saturday morning stuffing letterboxes and hopping over railings between houses to get the job done, when we finished we felt good, Sr Rosaleen said God was always looking down and he would be very happy with us, we would have preferred some Dime bars and a packet of Tayto crisps from the Kiosk but Sr Rosaleen told us she would also say a prayer for us instead!

Over the next couple of weeks there were three more bag snatches, Mrs Byrne was walking up Sperrin road after bingo on a Tuesdays evening, the snatcher was hiding under a car, he let Mrs Byrne break away from a group of her friends so finish her short walk to her house, the snatcher was getting better at this, he was literally gone like the wind, Ma Staunton and Mrs Cooper suffered a double snatch down on Keeper road when the snatcher jumped out from under a load of black bin bags that were outside the boxing club, before the ladies knew it he had both handbags under his arm as he sprinted off towards Brickfield park.

At this stage the local Gardaí where really starting to feel a high level of frustration and embarrassment, they didn't have one single lead to go on, no witnesses came forward and all they had were multiple descriptions of the back of the snatchers head and he always wore a hat so they didn't really know his hair colour either. It was all anybody talked about at the local shops, at mass each day and up in the ladies club where local women met every Tuesday in the local parish hall.

Each day I was carrying out my usual duties at home, I went to the local shops every day for six pints of milk and a sliced pan of bread, sometimes a dozen eggs and on Saturdays I was always instructed to get a silver side of corned beef, two heads of savoy cabbage, a pound and a half of O'Gorman sausages, a half ring of white and a half ring of black pudding, I also did my daily run up to the kiosk for various bits and pieces such as orange ice pops, blocks of ice cream, bottles of cream soda and sachets of shampoo and conditioner for my big brother Brendan. Up at the kiosk Mr Carter was in his usual omnipotent form, all knowing, wisdom bestowing Mr Carter. I needed a packet of King crisps for my sister Jacqueline, the crisps cost 8 pence and she had given me a 10 pence piece and told me I could keep the change. I approached the kiosk window and rummaged in my pocket for the 10 pence coin, 'Hello Mr Carter', 'Hello young Carroll' came his reply, as astute as ever. We chatted a little about the weather and of course the bag snatcher still being at large, I then asked him for the packet of King crisps and a time bar (this was my reward from Jacqueline), I reached into my pocket and handed over the coin into Mr Carter's big fleshy hands. 'Ah young Carroll, now I didn't come down in the last shower' 'What's wrong Mr Carter?', he then showed me the coin I had just given him, it was my prized silver half crown, one of my pieces from my prized coin collection. 'That's a lovely silver half crown young Carroll, but we don't use those any more as you well know' Mr Carter continued in an extremely confident fashion about the coin 'Now young Carroll, I have a couple of those half crowns in my own collection at home, one is dated 1936 and is actually 75% silver and you have to handle it carefully as it will wear down over time, I just acquired it recently, the other one is dated 1953 and is 75% copper and 25% nickel and was known as the cupronickel variety, there is an image of an Irish Hunter horse on one side of the coin and and the Irish harp on the other side, your coin in my hand is a cupronickel type', Mr Carter continued ' I get a lot of people, either purposely or not, handing in old coins over the counter of the shop to buy stuff, mostly you pesky kids' Mr Carter flashed a wry smile!

I wondered at the man's detailed knowledge of this and other coins, I stood there listening for at least ten minutes completely transfixed, I loved collecting different coins but I had never known that Mr Carter was a coin collector and an absolute expert. Later that evening I told my Dad about the coin incident with Mr Carter, he pointed out that because Mr Carter was blind his other senses were probably enhanced, for instance his hearing and sense of smell would probably be much sharper than ours and also his sense of touch, after all he handled coins and notes all day in his shop, my Dad said that if Mr Carter didn't know a shilling from a two pence piece the Kiosk would go out of business pretty quickly!

Meanwhile time was moving on with the bag snatcher problem, there had been absolutely no progress in terms of catching him, no leads no descriptions, nothing!

One Sunday morning I was on altar boy duty for 1130 mass, Sr Rosaleen sat in the second row of the church and at one stage of the mass gave me a knowing wink, after mass was over she popped into the sacristy to talk to us; 'Now boys' she pronounced, 'I need you to go visit some of the victims of the bag snatcher to see if there are any odd jobs we can do for them; grass cutting, going to the shops, we will do any jobs they need done, we need to make these ladies aware that we are supporting then through this traumatic time'.

Sean Murphy muttered something under his breath, he was not happy with this as it meant he would probably miss soccer training, other than that we all agreed to do as Sr Rosaleen had asked 'Good boys, all of ye, ye are all going to heaven' she tooted as she skipped out of the sacristy, folds of her robes and her rosary beads flowing and rattling behind her.

I took my slip of paper from Sister Rosaleen containing the name and address of the lady I was to visit, Betty Murray was her name and she lived on Benbulben Street, I headed off down Mourne Road to visit this poor old lady, fully signed up to the task at hand, a restoration of human faith!

I tapped on Mrs Murray's green door, the brass knocker and letterbox were gleaming and I could see me face reflected in them, I was moving my face back and forth to distort my reflection like I always did with my Granny's tablespoons, she opened the door and I just about managed not to fall into her hallway. 'Well who have we here?' her voice was warm and intelligent sounding, 'Hello Mrs Murray, my name is Alan, Sister Rosaleen sent me over to see if you had any odd jobs I could help with?' I puffed out my chest with pride as I rattled off the lines that Sr Rosaleen had drilled into us earlier.

'Well, young Alan, you had better come in then' Mrs Murray opened the hall door fully and waved her arm in a sweeping motion which seemed to tug me into her house.

As soon as the hall door closed behind me I could sense the warmth and wonder of this old Lady's home, in the narrow hallway the embossed papered walls were filled with photos and prints of various sizes and content; family photos, photos of pets, pictures of the seaside, there was also a framed print of the Irish Proclamation of Independence as read out by the Easter Rising volunteers back in 1916 outside the GPO. There also hung a framed print of Padraig Pearse, the exact same pose as was in the print that I had won in school a couple of years before, his head turned to the side in civilian clothes. This was my type of house packed with my type of stuff, I just knew it, I had hit the jackpot with Mrs Murray!

Over the next hour she told me all about her family and especially her husband Bert who had died five years earlier, she told me how Bert was just 17 years old when he volunteered to join the Easter rising, he had cycled between the GPO and other rebel posts with notes and communications regarding the rising and the movement of the British Army around Dublin city. She told how he was stopped a few times by British soldiers in places like Stephens Green and Beggars Bush, he had shown them the bread and milk he had in a sack and told them he was off to visit his sick mother, they let him carry on with his endeavours.

Mrs Murray took down some old cardboard boxes from beneath the stairs and set them on the kitchen table, I was careful not to knock over my orange cordial drink and the rich tea biscuits she had given me. She kept handing me photos, pieces of old newspapers and various medals and coins collected over the years by her beloved Bert, I was in heaven, this stuff was brilliant. I sat there for an hour sifting through the various nuggets of history. Mrs Murray was delighted that a young lad like me was interested in her husbands old stuff, somehow it made her feel alive again.

We never discussed the bag snatching incident until I was leaving her house to head home, the mood of the visit had been so pleasant that neither Mrs Murray or me wanted to spoil the atmosphere. As she was leaving me out the door she asked had I enjoyed looking at the old coins and medals, I said it had been great and she told me to drop in any time to have a look at them again.
I headed out down her garden path and then remembered that I had wanted to asked her a question about Bert's old stuff, 'Hey Mrs Murray' I said 'Which is your favourite piece?', Mrs Murray stopped in her tracks and her eyes welled up with tears, I was horrified, what had I said to upset her, it had all been going so well up to this point! 'Well, young man, my most prized possession was a Silver Half Crown coin from 1936, Bert gave it to me years ago as it was his favourite coin and I had treasured it ever since, they are very rare now but it was a lovely looking coin' then an incredible thing happened, we both said the same thing at the exact same time 'there is an image of an Irish Hunter horse on one side of the coin and and the Irish harp on the other side' Mrs Murray was taken aback as she stood at her hall door, 'Why yes, you are quite right, but how do you know about these old half crown coins, have you seen one recently?' her tone was more sober and serious as she cocked her head to one side and eyed me with some degree of suspicion. 'The night my bag was snatched I had my silver half crown in there, my precious gift from Bert, the snatcher took it all and I haven't seen it since'.

My mind was reeling, I was in a spin, I tried to speak but no words came out, I turned and ran out of the garden as fast as I could, I didn't look back, I ran up Mourne Road, I thought my heart would burst I was running so hard, I ran past Mrs Moyne's house, Mrs Dowling's, our house, I kept running, I was getting closer and closer to the church...

Just as I was about to collapse I reached my destination, I had to gasp to try catch my breath, leaning against the green kiosk railings to steady myself, my breathing slowed down and I approached the Kiosk window, Mr Carter was busy inside rearranging bottles of cough sweets and bullseyes, 'Mr Carter' I called into him 'Young Carroll?' he replied straight away as accurate as ever, 'Mr Carter, I have something to ask you, you said you had recently gotten one of those beautiful Silver Half Crown coins?' I said in a calm measured tone 'Yes I did young Carroll, a 1936 minted coin in fabulous condition, I was just giving it a little polish last night at home, it is sitting up on the mantle piece as we speak'.
I had a lump in my throat and my palms were sweaty, I could barely speak, 'Mr Carter, can I ask who you got the half crown from?', 'Well that's a funny question young Carroll, but the answer is even funnier, it was handed into me by a young lad called Gary Rankin, he is a grandson of Mrs Murphy's, he lives in Manchester but is over here for a few months for a break, or so he says', he continued and I was rooted to the spot listening ' he handed me in that coin and asked for 4 loose cigarettes and a box of friendly matches. When I told him it was actually a old half crown coin he ran off up the road, of course I shouted after him to come back for his coin but he shouted back over his shoulder that I should keep it'.

It all made sense now, I thanked Mr Carter and headed home to tell my Mam and Dad what had happened, when my my Dad arrived home from work an hour or so later he told me that everything would be OK, I was extremely worried that Mrs Murray thought I was the bag snatcher and that she would tell the police but my Mam told me that the truth always comes out and I should stop worrying.

After my Dad was finished dinner he went out to the back garden to smoke his tobacco pipe amongst his rhubarb plants, I sat in the kitchen waiting to see what was going to happen next, just then my little sister Rose ran in to the house shouting that a police car was outside, my stomach was churning as Dad walked in from the garden and got his jacket, he grabbed me by the hand and we headed to the front door to meet the two young Gardaí, they didn't need to speak, my Dad told them we were ready to head to the station with them. A crowd of kids gathered on our street to see us driven away in the back of the Garda car!

When we got to the station they brought us immediately to a meeting room in the station and they were all there, Mrs Murray in her housecoat, red headscarf and matching lipstick, Mr Carter looking very distinguished in a heavy overcoat and a trilby hat with a little feather in it's band, there were several Garda chatting to them and when we walked in they all fell silent. I felt all eyes were boring holes right through me, my cheeks flushed red and my legs felt as if they had suddenly turned to rubber, it felt like an eternity until Mr Carter shouted 'three cheers for young Carroll, the hero of the day' and with that there was a fairly civilised and quietly executed three cheers from those assembled in the room.

The station Sargent stepped forward and shook my hand with his huge hands 'Well done young Carroll, we picked up Rankin an hour ago as he was walking down Sperrin Road, we asked him in for some questioning and he immediately buckled and confessed to everything, the entire episode of bag snatches and also a couple of burglaries'.

I was so relieved at the news, I looked at Mrs Murray and she had a tear in her eye 'Mr Carter has my precious memento from Bert and he will return it to me tomorrow, all thanks to your good self, fair play to you young man, you are a little gem'.

So while Rankin was sitting in a holding cell somewhere in the building the Sergeant offered the adults a cup of tea and some Ginger Snap biscuits and I got a glass of red Lemonade, a packet of Tayto crisps and a five Pound reward from Mrs Murray, it was a nice ending to the drama.

So Mrs Murray got her coin back and the police were able to distribute a lot of the stolen items back to their rightful owners. Normality soon returned to the streets of Drimnagh for the old ladies who had been living in fear of the handbag snatcher and there was a real feel-good buzz about the place again.

A couple of weeks later I was sitting in our back garden playing with our snap dragon flowers as my Dad was trying to salvage some of the slug ravaged Rhubarb 'I still can't understand how Mr Carter does it, I mean he knows a lot more than most people and he can't even see' I said to my Dad.

He sighed, sat back and took off his gloves 'I heard an old proverb once from the holy land and I think it sums things up well, it says "A blind man can often see better than a seeing man who is blind" and Mr Carter certainly proved that to be 100% correct!

And with that he went back to his Rhubarb!

Alan x

Note :

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Random photos

2011-09-28T13:00:00.001+01:00

Corridor St James hospital

View to the other side!
Felled and hollowed tree in Castletown House, Celbridge, Co.Kildare
Ireland.

End of Summer!
Flower stand at Farmleigh House, Phoenix Park, Ireland.

Pathway from life!
Local Graveyard in Straffan, Co. Kildare, Ireland.

Wheatfields at Castletown House, Celbridge, Co.Kildare.
August 2011

Black Monday, Tuesday and er Friday and possibly Sunday

2011-08-06T17:13:00.001+01:00

I really don't know how you feel but sometimes I get really tired of all the negativity!
Now don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting for a minute that things are exquisitely rosy in the garden, because we all know they are not, I am talking about how we as human beings get sucked into and consumed by the orgy of negativity that's out there, coming at us in waves day after day.
I am talking about negativity on a personal level as in the 'I feel fat and that I have no future' type negativity, then there's the work type negativity 'This company is going to the dogs', of course we also have your taxi cab type negativity 'them bleeding bankers should be shot' and also that nugget of a taxi driver comment 'this crowd are as bad as the last shower of gobshites' referring of course to our esteemed public representatives. You then have the national and European negativity 'this country is banjaxed and we are all doomed' and then the extreme global negativity 'there is going to be outright anarchy all across the planet and come the revolution, the rich and the bankers will be the first to get it!'.
I want to admit openly that I have been a willing diner at the table of negativity many times over the past couple of years and I have indulged, on more than one occasion, in a jolly good spate of bitching, moaning and general nay saying about everything from the price of milk to the fact that I have to turn our home heating on in June.
Indeed one time last year I indulged in a lengthy discussion with a homeless person about the current quality of the cardboard he was using to sleep on in a doorway in Grafton Street. He had asked me for some change and when I sheepishly reached into my pocket to pull out a Euro coin, two 10 cent pieces and a used piece of dental floss, he reacted with an unnerving level of glee which only served to heighten my embarrassment and unease at this man's plight and my innate desire to quickly move on down the street and leave him behind me.
But that was never going to happen, indeed he felt obligated to initiate a conversation with me which would somehow work off the €1.20 I had given him, there was an awkward moment after I shoved the paltry sum into his hand when I wanted to quickly walk away while avoiding his eyes but he acted admirably to retain my company 'they just don't make cardboard like they used to?' he blurted out, I was stuck in a moment of hesitation, my choices were stark, I couldn't ignore him, that would be downright rude, besides he and I had carried out a transaction, money had changed hands, we were connected on some level, I was a tramp customer and he was going to give me some value for money.
And so we stood there in the middle of the pedestrian thoroughfare (great word eh?) and chatted about the current state of the cardboard and paper market, as is usually the case in these situations I had read my vagrant friend completely wrong, his fascination with the quality of cardboard boxes was not borne of of his pressing need to have a good slab of board for that doorway he would be sleeping in tonight, no indeed I had been very wide of the mark, my trampish colleague began to tell me about his career as an executive of a major cardboard manufacturing company, managing eighty people at one time, drove an S-Class Merc and played tennis at the local golf club. Sadly his demise was swift, savage and rapid, he explained to me that his wife had been banging the tanned and muscular Brad, Brad being the Golf pro at said club. Mrs Tramp (well what else can I call her?) eventually left Mr Tramp and proceeded to take him to the cleaners, she left him with her fiat punto and a few months rent in the local Bed & Breakfast. Alas his spiral into outright trampdom was visceral and savage, friends unfriended him, business contacts turned their backs and he eventually arrived at the port of Tramptown and reluctantly settled as one of it's newest residents.
So as I walked away from the encounter I most definitely felt more than a pang of guilt at moaning about the amount of jelly babies in a pack or the fact that our dog Charlie had pee'd on our dining room curtains again, this has been a life lesson for me, a pointed reminder that however bad things are there is always a tramp knocking around who has been shafted by his botoxed wife and her well endowed golf coach. My advice? When you are feeling that wave of negativity beginning to wash over you, go find a tramp, ask him how his day is going and just kick back and enjoy the ride. And by the way think before you throw out that cardboard box from the new fridge, maybe save it for a rainy day?

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Thanks
Alan x

Barking mad

2011-07-20T23:03:00.000+01:00

Dear neighbour

Thank you for the anonymous letter you wrote to my owners complaining about my incessant barking, the annoyingly high pitch of same and various other aspects of my canine existence which have annoyed you in recent times.

I welcome the opportunity to address your points and the queries you have raised...

You have asked my owners to have me cease and desist with the barking, this may not be possible as my barking reflex has developed from an evolutionary perspective over the past two hundred thousand years or so, my owners could consider surgery to have my dogvoicebox removed but I hope you will agree that this would be a slightly drastic route..... for me!

You have pointed out that I am the most annoying dog on the planet, I must take issue with point, I know a shitzu who is much more annoying than me, she preens about with her nose in the air with that 'holier than thou' air about her, she also regularly poops on our street which I am sure you will agree is a huge contributing factor to the tag of 'most annoying dog'?

You also mentioned the fact that I bark at the birds, while this is true I would like to hear your suggestions for resolving this habit, maybe a no-fly zone over our garden, possibly put up some birdy signs 'tweet tweet, twittery tweet, chirp' which roughly translates to 'Hey birds, fuck off'!
I could always suggest to my owners to buy an UZI machine gun and take the scumbag birds out all together, but I don't think that's going to fly.... so to speak.

You are wondering if I am in fact a dog in distress due to the high pitch of my barking? Now I am not sure whether you know this or not but I am actually one of those annoying Bichon Frise breeds, we are an in-bred lot of mutts with a penchant for high pitched barking, matted coats, dog mania and a general mental dizziness which usually drives our owners over the edge.

Lastly you noted that during the week you had to listen to my barking all day which has been very annoying to you.
May I be so bold as to suggest you venture out of your house at least once or twice a week, that big ball of gas in the sky is called the sun and sometimes it can be nice and warm when it makes contact with your skin, if however you are in fact a blood sucking vampire from hell (which is how my owner referred to you) I would probably not go out during the day as I have heard it can be bad for your skin, even fatal!

Well that's about all I have to contribute at this point, I need to go now as my owner wants to bring me for a walk, however he does have a strange look in his eye and has packed a shovel into the back of his car and a few black sacks, I am not too sure about that manic grin on his face, ah well hopefully will talk to you again sometime soon.
Don't forget to write back!!

Signed
Charlie the Dog

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Good Morning

2011-07-07T17:36:00.001+01:00

A crane is needed to lift her head from the pillow

The larks and starling songs pierce her eardrums with their irritating melody

She lays on her back with arms either side and legs spread

Leaden head and limbs paralysed with apathy fear and dread

She should get up and feed the child who is crying

But now the insidious darkness has lowered the volume of everything

And she can’t really hear the screaming, hungry tot

As he flap his legs within his baby white cot

Her brain is void of thoughts save for ones of dying and cutting flesh

She yearns to score her wrist skin so she can feel life pain

But her legs weigh twenty stone and she can’t rise

No arms or fingers can work, all succumbed and paralysed

After a while she thinks she hears a bird and whooping child

She crawls out of the pit to a hint of fresh air

Daylight shines through the window onto her face and she can lift her arms to her head

Back to the living once again, back from the brink of the dead...

I think you may be depressed...

2011-06-28T00:40:00.000+01:00

I am in a black hole

With no hope to repose my soul

The sides are gravellous and steep

The dark runs swift and deep

I am drowning in a damp black hole

The dank dark moisture has taken its toll

My throat is gravellous and deep

The hole is ravenous and steep

I am buried alive in a deep black hole

The soil is murky dirty and cold

It runs along my face and back

It covers my eyes my world is black

I am dying in a dark black hole

With no cross to help repose my soul

The rancid earth pushes down on my face

Into each crevice and space

Redemption verse

A shovel breaks the sodden soil

Driven by boot with vim and guile

Daylight breaks through muck and dirt

Grasping hand leads me back to Earth