My Hair

Hair has always been important to my self-image. I have always worn it long, unclipped, untethered, unrestrained. I associate tying up my hair with working. All of those jobs of my earlier working life required tying up the mane.

I once had bouncing baby curls, as an Anne Geddes style baby photo will attest to but 1984 (Orwell chose the right year to be dystopian) saw a traumatic hair event in my life. My Mammy had my hair cut into a pageboy.

I started school looking like a boy. It was all-girl school so nobody got confused but this set in motion a terror of hairdressers that lasted a good twenty years, ending with a Rapunzel complex.

Long hair and a fear of cutting it.fairytale-1735367_640

I got over that.


My hair is brown, and therefore I am cursed with the early grey gene. My first grey (white piece of wire more like) sprouted menacingly from my naive head when I was thirteen and was promptly ripped from said head by an obliging friend who sat behind me and couldn’t look it at. (Done without my prior knowledge, sharp and secret pain). 38150068.jpg

The dying began in my twenties. Not a person who embraces the harlequin of colour style of hairdressing, a new shade a season, I stayed brown.

Basic brown

‘Chocolate’ most  dyes refer to it as.bitmoji-20170322040503.png

Children came into my life, magical pixies that bring spirit and energy, mischief and mania. Somehow my hair becomes in need of the touch up quicker. not to blame my babies…but there may be a connection.

I have made and cancelled two hair appointments in recent weeks due to other circumstances ( see Cancelling an Operation when under Anaesthesia?). The window had passed. I had gone from a few indeterminate greys to full on old man crown.comic-characters-2027416_640

Last Saturday morning, we were swimming. My two year old was perched happily on a changing room bench as I sweated with the latex suit, my head bent under her nose. She gasps.

‘Oh Mammy- what happened?’.

Quick glimpse around.

No blood.

‘WWhat happened your hair?

She plucked at the cement grey roots.

‘Who did it Mammy?’

Crèche culture has introduced my daughter to blame. Someone must be at fault for my terrible aging.

So it seemed anyone timeto get the job done.

Sunday evening, I lashed on the supermarket dye. Piled my hair into a top knot. b1251c2ebfe9ffcb4f31feed100c3fe0Slick with the unctuous liquid, towels everywhere, I showed my version of a ‘Mulan’ do to the girls. The raw state. The work in progress.

Delighted Gigi applauds.

‘Yea! You have lovely hair Mammy!’

I looked like Nanny Plum if she stuck her head into a semi-gelatinous jelly flood.11xcye

‘Thanks Gigi’.

The next morning, I brushed out the freshly coloured, conditioned locks, somewhat proud of looking like me again. I looked expectantly to my daughter, keen for her to praise my hair in a state of glory.

‘AAwww. Your lovely hair is gone Mammy’.

The self- consciousness I had developed as a result of Gigi’s observation took on a whole new meaning.


Hair. It doesn’t really matter anymore.



Movie Gems for St Patrick’s Day treats!

A reboot for the day that is in it😊


I like delving into nostalgia like this. Sometimes the past can make you lonesome. This type of remembering just makes me smile!

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Hope you are enjoying today wherever you are! Maybe you would like a little movie viewing. Here are my choices that match the day that’s in it. Lots of you will know these incredibly well. Others will not. Whether you like them or not is up to you.  Each and everyone are classics of Irish TV and will be found on the box when we wear the green.

1. Flight of the Doves


A tale of two children with a fabulous surname, Dove. They must get away from their wicked uncle Tobias and find their Granny who lives in County Galway in Ireland. A true fairytale! I have blogged about fairy stories recently and all the elements are here. See Hairy Tales. I loved watching this as…

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Cancelling an Operation when under Anaesthesia?

An Open Letter. March 2nd, 2017.

To Enda Kenny. To Simon Harris. To the the People who Cannot See the Bigger Picture.

It is an awful feeling to have in the pit of your stomach to know your father is sick.

To know he is worrying.

To see him in a hospital for weeks on end like a caged animal, domesticated by force.

My father was diagnosed with heart trouble two years ago.

The doctors have swung between stents and by pass surgery, medication and ‘talks’ since that awful summer two years past.

What has happened since?

A stent operation that was cancelled at the last minute due to a low heart function (despite prior knowledge of this).

Horrid, long waits in St James hospital for a blunt, arrogant machine of a surgeon to make my parents further stressed with his horrendous manner, curt manner of delivery, lack of desire to empathise, sympathise or show kindness to a worried middle aged man and his wife up for the day to Dublin from their rural home. This man- Dr Young- gives you 3-5 minutes, four sentences of information whereupon he parrots his orders into his dictaphone for a letter and barks ‘Cheerio’ to signal that your interview with Him. Is. Over. No questions please, as it were. This man told my parents in this brief time how ill my Dad was, terrified them with what was true but really could have been delivered in another manner. I appreciate time limits and pressure is on the hospitals but I also think that does not stretch to your own choice to be human when dealing with humans.hands-981400__480

A wait for this surgeon that was going on and on, with a father (diabetic) who didn’t want to eat until he had seen the doctor. I went to his office door at one point and broke my moral code by looking at the files. My dad’s file wasn’t even in the wait list pile.  He knew he had little to tell him until he spoke to some other people but did not tell us this in any time. Just let us wait and wait.

Yes, as soon as I made a fuss, we were seen.

Barked at.


No information.


Out of pocket. Out of energy. Fighting for hope.

We have changed surgeon since Dr Young. He had no confidence in helping Dad and honestly the new surgeon gave my father confidence by treating him in an infinitely kinder manner. However we have still been shunted from one place to another,  decision to decision, each one more indefinite and uncertain than the last. This further delay has allowed my father’s condition to worsen. This dillydallying from a rude surgeon to the waiting lists that our country is subject to as a result of our health system taking a backseat to other more trivial matters has let my father become more ill. My father was finally on put onto the list for a triple bypass. Isn’t it awful that our lives are subject to lists?

Times passed.

January brought pneumonia. His heart function is considerable lessened.

Is it fair say that if we had better care two years ago my Dad would not be so unwell? Would it be fair to say this country has allowed him to become worse? That my mother is living a sub-life, in and out of hospitals as  my dad cannot leave one now as he is high risk?  That he cannot drive. Write (his job). Work. Be at home. Be free? Is it fair to say this country is letting my parents down at a time when life should be enjoyed? They should be relaxed?horror-2028165__480.png

I have rarely seen my Dad cry but I did see him cry yesterday.

No one needs to see their Dad cry.

Yesterday in St James’s hospital, after four weeks in Tullamore, he was prepared for the triple bypass surgery. He was anaesthetised. I took time from work. My mother prayed. We sat and waited.

Three hours after he went in, a surgeon comes to us. We sank into our chairs. Why was he here? Why was this gowned man here when he was supposed to be in there? He explained they had reach a complication. They had realised his heart function was so much less. They couldn’t do it this week.

They talked of next week.

Relief at the news that it was not worse was our first response,  it took us awhile to consider these implications.

We waited all day to talk to someone else.

We were sent a young man, a doctor who was not in the team that morning who gave an explanation that my Mother and I don’t really feel satisfied with  (blame Tullamore essentially. That was it. He was officious. Curt. Talked over my Dad. Attempted to answer our questions but really it was not good enough. No other human in the know spoke to us. No other surgeon. Nothing.

Retrospect is powerful for knowledge and I hope that you Taoiseach and your selected minster realise this in years to come when you look back on your administrations.

My father would have been operated on and recovering by now if you all had done a better job.

My mother would not be crippled with fear and anxiety if you prioritise ordinary people.

Apple are laughing at you Taoiseach.

I hope you fall over with your hypocritical bowl of shamrock, and if you hit your head you might realise that you have focused on all the wrong things. You let your administration squabble and lose confidence in you. They sit like pumas in the long grass ready for you to go before they swipe in to take your place. And continue this non-progression.


Enjoy your trip to Washington in the meantime and remember us. Still in hospital. Still recovering. Still dreadfully unhappy.

We are one story in millions.

I am afraid I cannot send my usual kind regards.

Your citizen.


One Year Old Little Blog

It has been one terrifically fast year.

Or are WordPress are making a mistake?

Was it truly that one year ago that I felt so challenged and afraid that I needed to DO something so desperately?

Do something about it or take something for it, they said.

I did something.

Like First Defence, it may not have solved the problem, but just delayed it.

Also like First Defence, it worked for awhile and then I had to face the problem anyway. Which I am doing.

So what else has the year brought?

My home is filled with the sound of laughter and screams, chatter and reproaches. Yoghurt stains and spitty kisses. Frozen and Peppa. Tale telling and soothers. Nappies and potties. Tiredness and tempers. Love and laughter. Dirty dogs gathering scraps. Diets and secret eating.Man to pets about upside down house: 'I don't care who started it!'

A sick Dad. Awaiting the good times healthwise.

New bedroom furniture. The little things.


Make ups.

A blog that I love. I don’t know if I will ever be one of those ‘successful’ bloggers but I have had success in so many ways. Depending on your definition. Blogging friends.  Linky love. Family Friendly hq articles. Being a Boolino Friend. The Littlewoods Blog Awards Parenting Nomination.

The best thing is having a space to think and write.

Happy birthday little blog. Belated was a few weeks ago. We will celebrate together.

Another first birthday in our little world.

So to everyone who helps me keep my head above water and likes my blog, keeping it alive. Thank you.bitmoji-20170301031216.png