A Family Affair (Part 2)

So, following Ye Old Family reunion, I am thrilled to announce that, I am by proof of writing, still alive. Therefore proving that either the murderous stats (unlike Shakira’s hips) do indeed lie, or I caught my family on a particularly well-behaved evening. Either ways, it’s a positive outcome, and there hasn’t been a jot of murder blighting my family’s good name. PHEW!

But tendencies away from murder to one side, this weekend was an overwhelmingly positive one. There is something very special about gathering the family together, and boy did we gather. We had over 140 members of the Keane family, all descending from a troop of 9 (or was it 11)? siblings born in Wexford, Ireland at the turn of the 20th century. And all that Catholic breeding meant A LOT of descendants. 

The oldest (90) & youngest (14 months)
in the room. That's your future kid,
no wonder you're looking scared.

They came from far and wide hailing from Australia, France, Canada and Holland with ages ranging from 14 months to 90 years old. Stories were aired & compared and scandals widely discussed, from the cousin who held his trouser up with string to salacious scandals, to my particular favourite was that of Cousin Willie, a seemingly undiscriminating kinda man who went to the wilds of Canada. Upon his arrival in Canada he sent back to Ireland for his fiancée but one can only imagine his surprise when his fiancée’s sister turned up instead, the fiancée herself preferring to stay in the Emerald Isle. Cousin Willie being the indifferent man he apparently was, decided one sister was as good as another and married her on the spot. This unfussiness with women seems to be a common theme that soon unveiled itself with the story of another cousin who got 2 women up the duff and had to turn to his local priest for advice on which to marry and which to ditch. An early 20th Century version of Snog, Marry, Avoid it seems… except without much avoiding.

So apart from a love of the horizontal hide the sausage (& I retell these tales in the understanding these people have long passed), were there any other traits I could easily discern from last week’s reunion?  Well the fact that most there, including myself, had a penchant for drinking came as no surprise. I hate to turn to national stereotypes but it was in Ireland after all… Also, I can’t help but mention what seemed an almost universal inability to hold a tune. There was the odd exception, however let it be said, we are not musically endowed our family. However, we don’t let it hold us back as anyone who has seen me after 5 drinks near a karaoke machine will attest….

Teaching Nan the ways of the selfie.
 And failing it seems

And of course, while we’re not belting out one song to the tune of another, I have discovered us Keane descendants do like a chat (though my friends will undoubtedly say that is no great surprise). My 90-year-old grandma is a prime example, she may not be able to see the person she is talking at so well, nor hear their responses but that didn’t stop her!  She was up well past her bedtime every evening, and had to practically be dragged out of the reunion at nearly midnight (the latest she’s stayed up in many a year). Fortunately for such matters, she is wheelchair bound so although dragging wasn’t strictly necessary, the power of a swift wheelie came in very handy. At one point she was telling me about one particular family member who was (according to my nan) not present, thankfully it seems due to her having the condition of “a bell on every tooth”. Nope, I’d never heard that one either, but on further interrogation I discovered it means that not only does someone like to chat, but they do so at full volume. 

So all I can say is watch out world, judging by the volume of clattering and chattering at the Keane family reunion, this is one trait that has hit every generation on the way down, and as far as I’m concerned, long may it continue. For this is my clan, and I'm proud to be part of it.

Great grandfather Tom Keane. From whence I've sprung

It's A Family Affair

Please excuse any typos on this here blog post, for as I write I am currently chugging my way across the notoriously turbulent Irish sea....  Yes, the pipes, the pipes are indeed calling for I am off to the land of my forefathers (and foremothers too natch, lets not be sexist). But why am I returning from the land from whence I came (ok, my grandparents came)? Well it's a 50/50 split really. Primarily because it's time to reenact that age old tradition of The Family Reunion, and secondarily to assist my dear mother with the primary care of my rather aged, much loveable grandma.

Now, ito my recollection it's been near on 34 years since the last family reunion, and since I am a mere 35 years old at time of writing the recollection itself is somewhat shaky, if not impossible. In fact, the only evidence I have of said reunion is a picture of the day taken by my grandmother, of me & my brother sat on my mothers knee. On the reverse of said photo is my grandmother's near indecipherable writing dating the picture to 1978. Those of the mathematical persuasion may by now have figured out that I wasn't even born in 1978 (am an 80s child, as all the best are), so either that baby is an imposter or my nan's maths is way off.  As far as I can gather from that previous reunion, much fun was had and the only scandal to air was that of my 3 year old brother licking the vinegar off all the pickled onions (it was the 80s remember, am sure pineapple and cheese on sticks also made an appearance) just before they were consumed by the haplessly unawares extended members of my family. Fortunately no after effects were experienced, or at least if they were, they haven't as yet made their way into the annals of family history

But pickled onion licking is the least of my worries at this reunion, as I recently stumbled across some FBI figures relating to just how dangerous families can be (don't ask.... my search history is a veritable cornucopia of useless facts). According to said stats, in 2009 as much as 25% of US murders were committed by family members of the victim.  This increases even more when you include murders by spouses/ partners. WOWZERS... 25%? You gotta be kidding me! Families are chuffing lethal! And considering that we appear to have almost 150 members of our family pitching up to this event from as far away as Australia and Canada (we'll have more flags on display than a UN convention), perhaps I ought to be fearing for my life instead of merrily chucking back a pint of Strongbow at the ferry bar in an effort to combat seasickness.  

My only consolation thus far is the person organising this reunion is a detective with the Dublin police force, so if we're not in safe hands then at least our murders have a higher than average chance of being solved.... I hope. And if not, then perhaps I ought to have sent that imposter in my place after all.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

I remember at school when I was a kid, I got called a dreamer, I think by my art teacher. And it would be a pretty accurate description, especially as she was at the time examining my recently created clay bowl, with had less of the dream about it, and more of the living nightmare to be honest.... but art is all about interpretation innit?

Who says cats don't like water?

But she’s right, I have always been a dreamer, though perhaps not in the way she intended.  I mean we all are really, we all dream, but after recent discussions with friends, I’ve discovered I might dream vividly more than most, or at least I remember them more them most. Take last night for example, where Tom Cruise ducking exploding cars made an appearance, alongside my mate Alex as we both smoked fags and watched cats diving for fish in the canal, before fast forwarding to my local Breton cider shop (disclaimer, there are no Breton cider shops I know of in both my neighbourhood or the greater London area) where I placed an order for some of their finest, only to be palmed off with a Sussex cider I can get down at my local Sainsburys…. And then I woke up.

And this dream is no different, unusual or vivid than other dreams I’ve had recently. Others include opening a record shop with Noel Gallagher to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the release of Wonderwall. It was a great little shop, packed with squishy sofas which old nanas waiting for the bus would make full use of (much to the annoyance of myself and Noel) as well as a very literal Wonderwall covered in What’s the Story album covers. Or the one where I was having an argument with my mum in a sushi restaurant in California, owned and run by Hollywood actor and Roseanne star John Goodman, who doubled as the local mayor. That was one was so vivid I woke up crying, not at John Goodman's local governing policies, but more at the blazing row I’d had with my mum. I was in such a sobbing state I actually had to ring my mum to talk about it.

Noel doesn't seem to mind
these nanas on his sofa

What the actual F is all of that about? What is the point of any dream, not least ones concerning fish diving cats and Tom Cruise showing off some fab Matrix style manoeuvres?  I have no idea, but there are lots of theories floating about regarding the point of dreams, if indeed they have any point at all.  Perhaps the best known of dream theory is that of Sigmund Freud who basically said our dreams are some kind of wish fulfillment, we dream what we wish for, whether represented literally or symbolically. And goodness knows I do like a French cider so maybe that theory holds water.

There’s another theory which states that dreams are a way of our minds trying to combat our innermost fears, and although I do find Tom Cruise's gurning face somewhat terrifying, I’m a massive fan of sushi and I do love a blast of the ole Oasis now and then, so that one doesn’t fly with me terribly well.  Personally I’m going with the theory proposed by psychiatrist J Allan Hobson, who said that dreams are no more than a by product of our active central nervous system, our circuits in our head firing off memories, recollections and images as we sleep. Quite literally brain farts.

Well that's one way to get elected...

But one thing that seems to run throughout the many and varied dream theories is that of story telling. Whether with any higher purpose or not, our dreams tell us stories. As a lover of stories and storytelling this idea certainly resonates with me, and goodness knows my dreams are more like stories of very little point, rather than symbolically laden messages my subconscious is trying to send me…. That is unless it’s warning me off cider sellers making false promises, Hollywood actors posing as local government officials, swimming cats and nanas stealing sofa space, which on second thoughts is pretty sound advice after all.

The Confessions of A Lapsed Catholic Schoolgirl

What with one thing or another, I’ve been thinking a lot about death recently. Well, death and religion (leaving the taxes for another less exciting dinner party, naturally). Panic not, you can pop your oyster card away, there is no need to charge round to Sophington Towers to check for a pulse, it’s just a fair smattering of Facebook memories from this time last year has got me thinking… and indeed remembering.

You see this time last year one of my relatives died. Even if I wanted to speak ill of the dead, I couldn’t as this chap had nary a bad bone in his body. And my Great Uncle (for it was he) was a Catholic priest. Perhaps this is the time to go on a slight confessional (ahem) diversion here and stake my own post in the consecrated ground… Catholicism runs deep in my family. However much to my grandmother’s dismay it seems that it has come to a sharp halt at my generation. I am what could be called, a lapsed Catholic. Personally I prefer to think of myself as half agnostic, half Jedi (imagine a very confused looking Yoda, sometimes the force is with me). As such, I get all of the guilt without any of the solace. And despite the what the nay sayers and anti religion types out there (& there certainly are many in my generation) may think, religion, or perhaps better put – faith, can offer a lot of solace to those who have it. In my opinion, that can be no bad thing no matter how misguided others may think it is, especially important in times of trouble, or at the end of one’s life as my Great Uncle was. Now, I won’t disagree religion (or perhaps actions committed in the name of religion), has indeed resulted in some awful atrocities, however my generation’s dismissal of all things religious (throwing the faith out with the holy water as it were) can irk me. Anyways, digression over, that’s where I stand, and that’s what I’m sticking to!

The big J-C himself

Now, I loved my Great Uncle a great deal, he was a kind, generous & wise man. And am pleased to say for all you religion haters out there, lacking in the things most people tend to associate with the Catholic church nowadays, namely a vast stash of Nazi gold hidden under the garden shed, and don’t even go there on the other ever present Catholic scandal. In fact, on the occasions we did discuss religion, he was very open minded about my declaration that I wasn’t too sure about this ‘Son of God’ business, and smiled generously on my assertion that the big JC was probably just a well meaning hippy ahead of his time. So when his funeral rolled around this time last year I knew I had to do him proud. However, I had a dilemma...

You see, I’m rather out of practice at this whole Church thing. I haven’t been in many a year, in fact not since the last funeral I went to. My recent Catholic church going history seems less 4 weddings & a funeral, more just 4 funerals. So not only did I have to go to my local Mass to practice & make notes (well, there’s an awful lot of kneeling down & standing up at very specific times during a mass. It plays havoc with the creaky knees y’know) but it appears I was rather out of the prayer loop too. In the near 20 years since I’ve been away, they’ve changed some of the words. And didn’t I feel like a chump when I bellowed out a response that it appears went the way of The Crash Test Dummies, circa 1994, i.e. gone and promptly forgotten (except by me it seems).

And it being a Catholic funeral service, not only were there prayers, but also several readings. Honouring my Great Uncle as I wanted to, I volunteered to do one. Unfortunately for this occasion, despite my 13 years of Catholic school education & A grade in our mandatory Religious Education GCSE, I have never been much of a one for the Old Testament, sticking firmly to the AD chapters as opposed to BC, or as I like to think of it, B-JC. Now, I don’t know about you, but the Book of Habakkuk (definitely Old Testament with that name) was never high on my reading list at the University of Lapsed Catholicism. I’d never even heard of it, let alone read it, and thus was rather shocked by not only it’s appearance in my life, but also it’s size. At a mere 3 chapters, it’s less of a book and more of a pamphlet in my eyes, but its what my Great Uncle wanted, so it was what he got, albeit with slight word mangling (Yahweh anyone?) though am sure he would have understood.

And this being a clergy funeral, he was treated to not one but two services! The first as low key as one could be with archbishops & a troop of monks in attendance. The second got the full hurrah, with nigh on 30 priests showing up. Now, as stated previously, I am not as virulently anti religion as some I know, in fact, I might go so far as to say that if on the off chance I would marry, a Catholic blessing wouldn’t be out of the question. But even I was somewhat unnerved by 30 men doing what looked like a very well rehearsed hand jive when the Eucharist was raised. Clad as they all were in their white robes it was like a rather elderly Tai Kwando convention, with slightly creakier moves… However, when all is said and done, it’s the send off my Great Uncle planned (though perhaps without my hand jive reference).

So where does this leave me one year on? Remembering certainly, both the high exposure to Church and my Great Uncle. Am I left with any more Catholicism running through my bones? Not so much. However, when I think of him, I think of not only his kindness and faith in god, but also his faith in humanity, and as the world seems far too often to be going to hell (if you believe in it!) in a handbasket, surely that can only be a good thing.

The whole (clean) nine yards

Scarf Number 1

So, we’re a month into the new year, our wallets have been reloaded, and bar staff around the land have just about finished mopping up the carpet stains from the weekend marking the end of Dry January, but what really has been achieved? Has anyone kept to their New Year resolutions? Or have we all discarded them with the careless abandon of a Morris dancer prancing across the Devon moors come summer solstice? Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty pleased with how much I have kept to mine. This, my friends, is progress.

I decided back in December that 2016 was going to be the year of ‘New Year, New Me’, and while this has taken several forms (not least setting up my own business!), the first steps I took on this journey of a brand new Sophington was that of New Year resolutions. As I have previously expounded, New Year resolutions are not my thing, but this year I set myself some challenges, and am pleased to report I’m getting along pretty well with them.

I present to you,
the Sophington Scrappers

First and foremost I have learned to knit! Having attended my classes, I am now knitting with the fury of an amphetamine induced Nana! I've knitted a number of scarves (& torn up some others), Ok, so I'm only doing straight lines, but what are all clothes apart from a whole bunch of straight lines put together in interesting ways? I’m telling you, the knitted boob tube is just around the corner, in fact I’ll be surprised if Kanye hasn’t already got some lined up for his next collection.

Secondly, I am thrilled that I am continuing my trend of, if not quite reigning my Fantasy Football league, certainly not sweeping up the bottom. In fact I think I might be the highest scoring girl, which the feminist in me recognizes shouldn’t be an achievement, but the 1950s housewife in me (c’mon, we’ve all got one, haven’t we?) tells me is something to be proud of.

Thirdly, I have been on dates, and between you and I... well actually that’s not up for discussion, I recount my truly awful dates here thanks very much. But, that takes me onto fourthly, trying to be a weeny bit more healthy. Now I know this is a classic resolution. First made, and often first abandoned once we unfit ones have realized just quite what a pain in the rather sweaty ass (& everywhere else) it is to commit to the gym on a regular occurrence. I admit I haven’t gymmed it so much this year (I’ve been in the pool instead – think Esther Williams with less pointy knockers & zero HD brows), and another thing I have taken on is the Clean 9 challenge, and 2 days in I’m feeling pretty fine.

Day 2.... Breakfast

For those of you that don’t know about the Clean 9, it is a 9 day cleanse programme from Forever Living that is designed to kick start a new health regime. I’ve done it before, losing a rather impressive 10lbs and a dress size or two and feeling all round rather tippity top at the end of it. And in my spirit of New Year, New Me (and hopefully slightly less of the old me) I decided it was time to revisit it. As with anything, getting started is always the hardest, and the C9 is no different, as days 1 & 2 consists of nothing except water, aloe vera, some nutritional supplements and a selection of raw fruit and veg. And while I mourn the fact that crisps and chocolate are not included in the list (well, chocolate is made from beans innit? Thus, technically, a vegetable!) I am staying resolute, and feeling all the better for it already. It gets easier from day 3 when ‘proper’ food is introduced (still no crisps or chocolate though *mega sad face*) to the tune of a 600 calorie meal, and although I’m looking forward to it, I am also reveling in my bull headed determination not to be beaten by a bag of kettle chips. You spuds have got nothing on me mister!

So wish me luck peoples! I shall report back with my progress, and while I may never achieve the pointer knocker HD browed goddess like status of Esther Williams, come 12^th Feb I shall be a newer, healthier, hopefully somewhat smaller me, and this can only be a good thing.

Esther & her formidably pointy knockers

p.s If anyone fancies knowing more about the Clean 9 or trying it themselves, just shout. However, pointy knockers? You can research them all by yourself thanks very much...