Your request is refused

Head Rambles Posted on by 1

We had a visitor yesterday.

I should explain that because Herself is disabled we are entitled to a raft of measures. These include our own Nurse, a Helper and a fysio fizyo physyo exercise therapisty bloke. We never see Nurse. She only appears when she is newly appointed to the area, whereupon she does the Grand Tour of her patients like the Queen visiting her dominions and then we never see her again.

The Helper is a lovely woman who calls every week on Tuesday. The idea is that I get some respite while she’s here. This is my time to enjoy myself. But by the time I have got her to move her car [she always parks across the gate], have driven down to the village, found a parking place, and walked to the coffee shop, I just have time to order a coffee. But before it arrives, it’s time to walk back to the car and drive home again so the respite thing doesn’t really work . Helper does help enormously though but aside from helping, she also acts as a go-between between us and Nurse. And lately she has been nagging Nurse that we haven’t had the Therapy bloke in years.

The nagging finally worked and Therapy bloke arrived yesterday.

Well, he sort of arrived because he apparently drove up the lane, saw our gate, my car and the garage, but because things were somewhat overgrown he couldn’t see the house and assumed there was a main entrance further on. So he parked in Neighbour’s garden instead. A quick phonecall and a trip out to the gate sorted that.

Then he saw Penny. Oh dear. It seems Therapist is terrified of dogs. So he hid behind me while I hooshed Penny out of the way. This wasn’t easy as Penny naturally wanted to inspect this interloper and kept trying to reach him.

I eventually got Therapist indoors and Penny outdoors and introduced him to Herself.

Unfortunately he was far more interested in my guitars which are hanging on the wall. He wanted me to play them. I refused.

He then proceeded to torture Herself with a series of exercises. That was a pleasure to watch. But he was still hung up on the guitar business and started waffling about Garth Brooks and could I play any of his stuff? I refused. I’m not a Garth Brooks fan anyway. He carried on with his tortures.

The guitars were mentioned several times again. Apparently he got himself a guitar a while back but can’t play it. I think he was fishing for lessons. I refused.

He left after a while. I let him out the front door and then remembered that Penny was still around the back door and was bound to see him. She did. He just made it out the gate in time.

It’s time now to do my own torturing of Herself with her new daily exercises.

Fun times…

 

From the Front Lines of the Invasion

Head Rambles Posted on by 4

I went down to the village yesterday.

They have invaded again. Another damned film.

Last year is was that mob from Disney and their fecking “Disenchanted”. I don’t know who it is this year but they’re obviously from the UK. The very first thing I noticed driving in was that the telephone kiosk is bright red yet again. That kiosk changes colour more often than a pair of socks.

In fairness to them, at least the village isn’t shut down this time. They have only blocked off one road but this has led to traffic chaos and a lack of parking. However their junk is everywhere – camera dollies [or whatever you call ’em] and big spotlights dumped in driveways and my usual parking spot.

As I sat and enjoyed my mug of coffee and a puff of the pipe I surveyed the scene. A line of shops opposite has been renamed yet again. The village hall is now sporting a huge sign saying “THE POST OFFICE” and someone has mounted a pair of fake letter boxes on the wall outside that are bright red and sporting “VR” on them. I presume this is for local post and not-local post but I couldn’t be bothered to check. I assume from the “VR” that whatever they’re filming is set in a past era? It’s a while since Victoria reigned. For some strange reason our real letter box has been encased in a steel box with three sides. I don’t know what that is about.

Apart from the decor, the place is also full of Luvvies. They all strut around no doubt with the idea that us humble Irish folk are frightfully impressed with the sight of a real film being made here, with real directors and real cameramen and real actors and all the associated glamour and glitz. Sadly their egos must be a little deflated as we have seen it all so many times before and most of us just ignore them and wish they’d fuck off and leave us alone.

My pal Dave joined me after a while. He is usually the font of all knowledge villagewise but even he didn’t know what was going on. “Some six part television thing” was the best he had to offer.

On the way home I called into the real Post Office [which of course is nowhere near the village] to collect Herself’s pension and more importantly, a receipt for same that I can bung off for my grant thing. The real one has “Oifig an Phoist” on it which, for the sake of you foreigners translates to Post Office.

And it’s pronounced “Iffig on Fuisht”.

I do my best to be educational.

 

Fun and games part trois

Head Rambles Posted on by 1

I phoned the Council this morning.

After several tries I eventually got someone to answer the phone. They seem to have long breaks in there. Or maybe they have bladder problems? Or maybe they’re heavy smokers who have to keep nipping out for a quick drag. I will assume it’s the last one so I’ll forgive them.

The woman who finally answered sounded bored. Or maybe she had just been smoking some heavy duty stuff. Anyway she told me to hold on while she checked her in-tray to see if my application for the grant had arrived. She must have one hell of an in-tray as she took ages. Or maybe she nipped out for another fag.

Eventually she came back and said she had my application in her hand. I asked her if she had everything she needed and was my application okay. She asked about Property Tax. I said I had included that documentation. She checked and found it. She sounded disappointed. She asked about a Doctor’s Certificate. I told her I didn’t need one as it wasn’t required for a leaking roof. She reluctantly agreed. She asked what the problem was, despite having a full explanation in her hand as I had explained in detail on the application form. I explained to her about the leaking roof and how the bathroom was being flooded every time it rained. She informed me that it was a roofing problem. Give that woman a medal!

She asked me about my wife’s income. Fuck! I’d forgotten about that. She gleefully explained that I would have to submit an official receipt to disclose this vast addition to our income [which would barely cover twenty Silk Cut a week]. I sighed. I said I would send one in. She conceded that I could scan the receipt and mail it to her. She was much happier now that she had found a flaw in my application and was being more helpful.

I asked her about timing. When would I be likely to see an inspector to would agree that my roof leaks? I explained that it was a bit of an emergency as rain is due in the next few days and I didn’t want Herself to drown. She told me that wasn’t an emergency. Apparently medical requirements trump roofing requirements so I would just be put on a list. Tough shit. Bugger!

So I have to go out this afternoon to get Herself’s pension so I can scan the receipt.

I think I’ll have a coffee too.

 

Bury me deep

Head Rambles Posted on by 8

For some strange reason my thoughts turned to funerals today.

I have been to a few.

The first major one was my father, nearly fifty years ago. My memories are somewhat fractured and I only remember bits of it. I remember driving behind the hearse and how the cortege paused on the road outside The Manor [I could hear the dog howling indoors – he never normally howled so somehow he must have known]. I remember being at the grave on the steep side of the valley. It was a glorious hot summer’s day and was/is a beautiful spot to end one’s days. I also remember the wake back at the house and my uncle regaling us all with somewhat filthy but very funny stories.

I didn’t attend my sister’s funeral as it was in New Zealand.

Then of course there was my mother, twenty four years ago. Strangely I remember little of that. It was a very off-beat affair as she had donated her body to science so her funeral didn’t take place until a year or so after her death. The one thing I do remember was that she was supposed to be buried beside my father but the grave digger dug the wrong side of the plot and she ended up on top of him. There’s a joke there somewhere?

The last one I attended was Grandson the Elder. They say it’s against the natural order for a parent to bury a child so it is a lot harder to bury a grandchild. That was a beautiful affair with less of the mournful droning prayers and more of the happy speeches [especially by Daughter] about his life.

There have been others of course. Herself is the youngest of eight so we have planted both her parents and six of her siblings. There is only one sister left now and she’s well into her eighties. She’ll probably see us all off.

I haven’t given much thought to my funeral. I hope there is a decent wake with loads of booze and laughter. I don’t want any of that mournful crap. Smoking will be compulsory. Theoretically I have a vacant plot beside my parents [though not on top of my mother. Please. I beg of you.] but I would be happy enough if they just chucked me off Wicklow Head into the sea.

I won’t give a shit, one way or another