Pick up that baton and run

It's been a funny ole month at Sophington Towers, not so much births, deaths and marriages but certainly birthdays and a death, which frankly is enough for any one month to deal with. But in the end one death and a birthday certainly seem apt, if for nothing apart from reflecting a circle of life.

Me: Nan, let's take a selfie
Nan: Who are those two eejits on your phone?

The birthday was my own, and while that's not much to sing about, after all it's just a year, but the death? The death got me in the kicker, for you see the death was none other than my very fabulous last grandparent standing. It was my nan, she of the knitting needles, amusing misunderstandings of selfies and 'a bell on every tooth'. Regular readers of my errant witterings will have heard of her before, she was a big feature in my life . And I guess it was only in her passing I realised just how powerful she was.

You see, my nan was a very unassuming woman. She had a hard bloody life. She was not so much blessed with, as had dumped upon her a whole heap of troubles, not limited to a pretty crappy husband, list of health conditions as long as your arm (& then some) and a life of struggles. But my nan, strengthened by her faith in both in the big man upstairs and in humanity as a whole, well my nan did good. She raised 2 very strong daughters and she never let her problems conquer her indomitable spirit, or indeed sense of humour. She was a good woman, and it is on this good womanship & family that I wish to ponder.

Nan and her two girls

Raising two children as essentially a single mother must be hard for any woman, let alone one beset by struggles in a time when it must have been very hard to be a single mum. But she did it, and as I was sitting there at her hospital bed that I realised it was in her death that this hard work had completed it's circle. Unless you've been there, you've no idea how hard it is to watch someone you adore die. And not to die quietly, not quickly, not peacefully, but when every breath is a struggle, a fight not to let go. Witnessing that in itself takes strength. Strength to comfort your grandmother when you know she won't be around much longer, strength to, on doctors orders, deny her that small cup of tea she was begging for (she always took pleasure in the smallest things in life, from a nice cup of tea to the glorious bloom of one of her pot plants). Strength to hold her wee little hand feeling it weaken day by day just wishing she could steal some of yours to last that little bit longer. Strength to come to terms with important medical decisions that you know are for the best but you dread nonetheless, and perhaps most importantly, strength to hold up your mum in a time when her pain must've been so much more than your own.

First day of 'Big School'

As we family sat around her bedside (& not just women I hasten to add, but also my cousin Daniel who I don't think knew it, but was like some kind of bastion of manhood in my eyes, showing more public courage and fortitude than I've seen in a guy of any age. Proof indeed ladies, there are great men out there), I felt this overwhelming sense of femininity. A baton of womanhood was being passed from one generation to the next. My nan, she'd cared for me as a little un, held my hand as I was taking my first tottering steps into this big bad world of ours, wiped my ass and changed my nappies, babysat me, stood proudly next to me on my first day of 'big school', made tears turn into smiles and as I grew, those smiles turned into guffaws with her, chuckling at the oddities of life. And it was only in her passing did I realise that that baton of care, well it was my turn to pick it up now. My turn to run with the great woman genes, powering from one generation to the next, it was my turn to take care, but this time it was to take care of my mum as she was saying goodbye to hers. It was my job as a daughter to channel some of my nan's strength that she'd displayed (with very little grumbling) all her life, it was my job to stand up be counted and to hold up my mum, cos she needed some of that strength I couldn't impart to my nan. And as much as I might've wanted to run away at some points (and boy did I) I didn't. That's my baton of care, it's Nan's baton of strength and I will always carry that with me.

Nan strangling in action

I had always thought the big indicator of adulthood was getting a mortgage (well, having children has never seemed on my radar so a mortgage is just as long term and probably just as expensive!). When I become a home owner I'll be a grown up I thought. That'll make me a proper, card carrying, fully fledged adult I thought. HA! How wrong was I? On the day my flat completed I had no sense of achievement, no sense of overnight maturity. No siree, all I had was a monthly payment plan and a sense of deflation, let down by an absence of something that was entirely of my own imagining. But of late I've realised just how ludicrous that seems. It's not a milestone, a 21^st birthday card, a key to the door, a mortgage agreement or any other arbitrary markers in the sand that brings you from youth to maturity. It's these moments. These moments of life that you look can look back upon, pointing to saying 'THAT was a moment that changed me'. And it has.

You see, my mum called me strong last week and for all my oft repeated defence that I'm not really all that strong, I've just had a lot of shit thrown at me, perhaps she's got a point. Perhaps that's my nan's unwritten legacy to the women of her family, her baton of care, her baton of strength, her example of picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, having a chuckle at yourself and carrying on. And I have to say, as I'm facing the rest of the year newly single & with all of the challenges that life inevitably hurls at you, as legacies go, it's not a bad one. Thanks Nan. I owe you one. xx

I only wanna be with EU

So, Brexit huh? We're in a post brexit era now peoples! Except we aren't, we're in a political quagmire of our own making, and that's what makes it worse. Call me melodramatic but this week has been one of sinking feelings and even sinkier hearts. Well for me anyways. 

Ok, lemme backtrack a little. I know YOU know there was a referendum, and I hazard a guess you'll know the outcome of that afore mentioned balls up to the nth degree. A balls up not because of the result, which I totally disagree with BTW but democracy has spoken (or rather roared in the manner of an EDL member on a bad skinhead day) and it's the way of democracy to leave it to bone headed fools (public & politicians alike) to make important decisions. No, the balls up I refer to is the one we find ourselves in now, this post Brexit era that none of us can make head nor tails of (let alone the politicians that lead us into this hot mess) which seems getting all the more ballsed up by the hour... hence them sinking feelings. 

Lets take a moment to reflect upon developments nearly one week on:

1. No one knows how, when or even indeed IF we will leave Europe now - though that said, we didn't know that before the referendum anyways but now we're committed to knowing squat all for at least the foreseeable future.

2. The Tories' plans for the future seem to be crashing through the political waves with all the grace and good fortune of the Titanic... 

3. Labour Party see above. Then pass me a life jacket.

4. The Lib Dems... errr who? Oh yeah. Them (now) rare spotted beasties in the yellow. *sighs* Nuff said really. 

5. The SNP? Well they're are bidding to become the official opposition in a parliament where they don't even stand for election in 3 out of the 4 countries represented therein. Which when you think about it, is a bit nuts.

6. The rest of the world is all 'Jeez, UK,WTF did you do that for?' (As they should be). Still, makes a change to the US being the usual recipient of the global DOH award for dumbass decision making.

7. Donald Trump is happy with the result. That in itself is reason enough to be scared. After all a man that positively embraces such a bad 'do with aplomb ought not be an authority on anything, follicle or political. 

8. The England football team got beaten by a team whose GDP appears to be based mainly on herring and Peter Andre endorsements. Not strictly Brexit related but certainly following a theme.

9. Reported hate crimes are on the rise in the last week alone and people are scared.

10. Humanity is turning on itself.

Yeah, points 1-7 we can cope with. We're British after all (specifically English for point 8, and very much resigned to despair on such matters) and we have a national stereotype of stiff upper lips to fall back on. But points 8 & 9? Now that's what scares me. What REALLY scares me. Because you see, for all of it's supposed discussion about political sovereignty, the NHS, economy, jobs, the future of British industry in or out of the EU, this referendum was not about coming together to form a decision. Instead it was about DIFFERENCE.... 

The difference between Europe and the UK. The difference between the Brexiteers and Remainers, between fact and fiction. The difference between all 4 nations that make up this Isle (& a bit) of ours. The difference between the political elite and the disenfranchised, the haves and the have nots. The difference between religions, races, regions and nationalities. The difference between strivers, scroungers, and everyone in between. It's been a tug of war with the basic (one would hope) values of humanity and respect caught in the middle. This referendum has sought to divide without the ability to conquer. Shred hopes, dreams, ambitions, life plans, futures already in motion and those yet to be created. The country (well let's be honest, continent) has been ripped apart in more ways than one, and no one knows how to put it back together, certainly not me. 

So what do we do? How do we solve this knotty problem? Minds far greater than mine (and indeed lesser *scans current raft of desperately flailing politicians*) don't seem to have the answer. And even if they did, apparently this country is 'fed up of experts' anyways, and look where that's got us. So all I can do is add my tuppence ha'penny to the debate and suggest we just be nice to each other. Or at least try. Try not to hurl abuse at someone that doesn't look like you, sound like you. Try to be a bit more understanding; not all Brexiteers are rabid racists, and not all Remainers are out of touch elitist wankers. We need to try to pull together, not be pulled apart. We need to channel a bit of what some think made us great once, namely good manners, a strong moral core (ok, that's debatable) and a calm, rational chat over a steaming cuppa hot tea. In short, let's just try not to be dicks. It's not good for us as individuals or as a country. The rest will figure itself out in time.... I hope.

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.