We’ve had the tests. My husband’s reproductive organs are as perfectly healthy as he is perfectly patient. I’ve had all the procedures. I’ve tried acupuncture, special diets and aromatherapy.  I’ve held the newborn baby in my lap and close to my ovaries, wished upon a star and heaven knows my bedroom has seen more sex in the past ten years than a medium sized whore house. You name it, we’ve done and then some. It’s a miracle I don’t walk funny. And still every month I fail the test. It’s enough to give a girl a complex.

We opted for IVF two years ago. It was hard going and I’m sure if we’d had a baby at the end of it, it may have seemed like a walk in the park but we didn’t.  No matter how we tried to prepare ourselves for a negative result, hope is often too strong to reason with and when the call came and the negative result received we were both heartbroken.

I’m dizzy at the best of times but during the IVF I became a special needs case. I was so forgetful that I couldn’t be left alone in the house or I’d burn it down. I couldn’t walk the dogs for fear I’d leave one of them in the park and I certainly couldn’t be left behind the wheel of a car or carnage would ensue. Some people report that they become moody, not me I was as happy as I was stupid and my God I was stupid. It was as though with every hormonal injection I gave myself a little part of my brain would switch itself off.  I couldn’t work and there were days I couldn’t really converse because I’d disappear half way through a sentence. I know this is not usual and plenty of women get on with their days and lives as normal but in my case disengaging seemed to be my coping mechanism and a crap one it was.

The faux menopause wasn’t so bad. A few night and day sweats and a big red face every now and then didn’t bother me so much. A bucket of deodorant and a change of clothes and I was good to go. My brain vacated in or around the time I started shooting hormones. Every night at 8:55pm the alarm would go off and I’d go to the fridge take out my hormones, my injection pen, and a fresh needle. I’d grab my alcohol wipes and my sharps bucket from the shelf and head upstairs. My husband often offered to help but his offer was whispered, his face was pale and he’d looked like he was about to vomit so I’d politely decline. I’d head upstairs and into our bedroom. I’d put in the fresh needle in the pen, load the hormone, clean the area of my stomach with the alcohol wipe and shoot. It was all done and dusted in a matter of seconds. Aside from the minor side effect of forgetting my own name it was easy peasy.

As nice as the nurses were the internal check-up’s were embarrassing. I used to wear long skirts and high boots so that even with my knickers off and a nurses hand up my lady business I always felt dressed.  She’d show me the screen and comment on how big the eggs were getting. I’d nod and pretend to be engaged hoping against hope the conversation would end and she’d vacate my area asap. One of those days she was particularly chatty.

“Are you going back to the office after this?”

“I work from home.”

“Oh that’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you do?”

“I write.”

“Oh anything I would have read?”

Please let’s not talk while your hand making its way to my tonsils. “I don’t know.”

“Well name something.”

“Pack Up The Moon.”

She stopped measuring my eggs and thought for a second which seemed like an hour. “I knew I recognised the name. Oh my God I loved ‘Pack Up The Moon’.”

Oh please remove yourself from my innards and they you can tell me you that chapter two made you cry on the bus.

The blood tests were every day or second day I can’t remember now. They were annoying but only because I’ve bad veins so it made things a little more arduous.  I was excited on the day of egg collection because it meant I could stop shooting up every night. Donal had to provide a sperm sample. He freaked out at the notion of producing one in a small room with a video or magazine on his lap and a nurse and some other haunted men waiting outside so we stayed in a hotel in town. That morning we arrived to the hospital him with his sample and me with a belly full of eggs. I was prepped for surgery and although they weren’t going to put me under full anaesthetic I was given enough drugs to make the experience as surreal and painless as possible. The experience is vague but I remember talking and reassurances and asking one of the doctors if Jurassic park could really happen.

They removed eight eggs. The next day we were told we had two embryos to implant and nothing to freeze. Two was better than none even though the cell division wasn’t exactly what they’d hoped for. Implantation was another mortifying experience with me legs akimbo in a sterile room with more people in it than an Osmond’s tour bus. But it was over quickly. I saw the embryos fly into my womb and it was incredible and joyful. We went home and I sat in bed watching the box sets of ‘Extra’s’ and laughed all day. The next day I got out of bed and for the next 10 days we got on with our lives.  Every morning I’d have to pop in a hormonal pessary that told my body it was pregnant and my body must have believed it because I was sick a number of times that week.

On the day we were told the bad news we were eating lunch with our two friends. Looking back I think we were so sure we were pregnant that we thought it would be a nice way to celebrate. The call came and we were devastated. Whoops.

We haven’t tried IVF again and not because I was so forgetful or the embarrassment or the difficult blood tests or the fact that I felt physically horrible for months afterwards. We haven’t tried it again because we are happy together. We have a good life. We love one another and somewhere along the line we realised that we are both very comfortable with the notion that what’s meant to be is meant to be. Yes we’d both like to be parents but we’re not going to ruin what we have today in a bid to achieve the unachievable. Maybe if we tried it twice or three times or four or five at some point when I’m half demented and Donal has become my full time care assistant we’d get pregnant but at what cost?

Our specialist believes that there is still a chance of natural conception and so we hold on to that. I’m glad we tried IVF and I wish anyone who is reading this and about to embark on IVF the best of luck and love. If the result is negative and when you’ve finished crying and punching the wall you may decide to keep going and if you do I admire and support you.  But if you’ve reached the end of the line and it’s all got too much there is no shame in giving up. As Mick Jagger says ‘You can’t always get what you want,’ but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy with what you’ve got.

“Happy Birthday to you.”

“Shut up Enda.”

“Happy Birthday to you.”

“Seriously you’re causing me pain.”

“Happy Birthday, you’re an auld’ one now.”

Once the punch line was delivered he didn’t bother finishing the song instead he simply and quickly said “Happy Birthday to you”.  Then he laughed at himself. I love you Enda but tonight at dinner I will cause you some physical pain using a hot spoon or maybe an ear flick. I haven’t decided yet.

I’ve hated birthdays since I was a kid and most years if I’m not keeping track of the calendar I forget until someone reminds me and that puts in me in bad form because people insist on being cheery about birthdays and have no patience or understanding for those who don’t have any desire to mention never mind celebrate them. My husband loves birthdays and because of that every year I get on board. I go all out to do whatever he wants to do. I work hard to give him a gift he’ll love, I cook him all his favourite foods, we go to his favourite restaurants, we do the party thing etc.. and with him it’s a birthday weekend or week and that’s fine because it’s his birthday, he wants to celebrate the passage of time and I love him so I suck it up.

BUT why is it not OK for me to ignore the passage of time? Why do I have to argue against shopping for a present? Why is it so difficult to understand that I don’t  do parties or want an overpriced bunch of flowers especially lilies which are funeral flowers by the way.

As an adult I’ve only ever had two birthday parties to mark my 21^st & 30^th and both were surprises organised entirely without my knowledge. I very nearly missed the 21^st having disappeared off the gird contrary to everyone’s plan for me that day but I was found and it was a great night as was my 30^th and I was grateful to be surrounded by people who cared enough to mark the major milestones. And as grateful as I was the next year I went back to being the miserable bitch I am every other year and I was happy to do so.  

Three weeks ago. I was chatting to my best pal Hal on the phone and I mentioned that I was thinking of buying a subscription to Vanity Fair Magazine.  She responded quick as a flash.

“Oh, I’ll get that for your birthday.”

Alarm bells rang. Why on earth would my pal, mother of three and up to her neck in it night noon and morning have my birthday on her mind 3 weeks before the actual date?

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing.”  I could hear it in her voice, she knew she was rumbled, I knew she knew she was rumbled. There was really no way out of it.

“Ah Jesus Bannie,” she calls me Bannie, “Donal will kill me.”

“I might get there first.”

And so she spilled her guts for which I will be ever grateful. Donal my loving husband the dude that is supposed to know me better than anyone else in the world was planning a surprise party, with a room, DJ, finger foods, bunting, balloons whatever else comes with a surprise birthday. So tonight I could have been heading into town under the guise of meeting pals for dinner. I could have found myself walking toward a room, having every dog and duck I’ve ever met jump out at me and when my heart returned to its normal rhythm and my stomach descended back into my abdomen I would have fixed my gaze on a balloon or banner that read 38.

I may be a card carrying birthday grinch but who in the name of Jesus celebrates their thirty eight birthday with a dj, finger food and every dog and duck they’ve ever met?

 No one. That’s who.

So the party is not going ahead. The flowers my husband had delivered moments after Enda’s rousing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday, you’re an auld’ one now’ were not as graciously received as they could have been. So I’m going to end this blog. I’m going to kiss my little dog which is not a euphemism (See pic). I’m going to shower. I’m going to put on a happy face. I’m going to go down stairs. I’m going to kiss my husband. I’m going to thank him for the death flowers. We’ll walk the dogs and go for lunch in our favourite mexican place. Later we’ll head off to my pals for  a dinner that simply happens to coincide with my birthday and it will be a good day even though I’m a thirty frigging eight year old auld’ one and birthday grinch.

So What If I’m Broken
Reviewed by Patricia Lewis from South Wales
Another excellent book by Anna McPartlin.
Enjoyed every page of it. Bring on the next book
Anna. Can’t wait.
February 2010
This review applies to the So What If I’m Broken version.

pack up the moon
Reviewed by 15 year old book freak from Australia
I love this book. It got everything going for it. It felt like going through an emotional rollercoaster. It was sad, funny, suspenseful. Although down here in down under it’s called “Because you are with me” Can’t get over how fantastic this book was must thank my sister can’t wait to read “No way to say goodbye”
September 2009
This review applies to the Pack up the Moon version.

Pack up the MOON
Reviewed by Harmony from North carolina, USA
FABULOUS! This is the best book i have read in several years. I enjoyed every minute of it! I cant wait for Apart from the Crowd.
July 2008

Reviewed by Lisa Whelan from Dublin
An absolutely fabulous read! Enjoyed Pack up the Moon and Apart from the Crowd so much I kept hounding my local book shop asking them when the third book was out! Bought it last week and finished it already. It’s another cracker from Anna! The characters are so real there’s a bit of someone you know in every single one of them. Laughed out loud and cried quietly at different parts but thoroughly enjoyed every page.
March 2008

 I do. I get so sick of myself that if I could run away from me I’d jog off doing a mile a minute and never look back. Sometimes I look at myself and think punchable face or I hear myself speaking and think what a tosser. I look at my pals and wonder why do they bother with me?

That’s pretty normal isn’t it?

Of course it is. In fact I think it’s healthy to self loathe every now and again. It prevents you from ever falling into that obnoxious self satisfied smug state of being and from climbing a Hightower and pulling your pants down and dumping on all and sundry.  And that’s a good thing isn’t it?

Every now and again I begin to feel bad and sad and generally unhappy with who I am and where I’m going. That’s been my most recent state of mind. It didn’t help that I’m battling allergies on a constant basis so all thoughts are muted by medication and mucus but that’s not a real excuse for my misery.  So what the hell was wrong with me? And how dare I feel sorry for myself, the bloody neck of me. Still I did even if it was just a little bit.

Writing blogs is not something I ever thought I’d do. Most of the time, I don’t give a crap about what I think never mind expecting anyone else to. But I’m a storyteller and storytellers need to ensure people are aware they are out there. If they don’t their stories don’t sell and if they don’t sell they can’t keep writing, at least not full time.  I’ve tried working a fulltime job and writing and it nearly killed me. So blogs and articles and interviews, TV and social networking it is and there’s nothing wrong with that aside from that small side effect of hyper self awareness. What do I think about this? How do I feel about that? Who am I? Where do I stand? What do I stand for? Where have I been? Where am I going? Where do I want to be? Nobody cares Anna. Not even Anna cares Anna. Shut the hell up Anna. Get a bloody life love.

So what do I do when I become hyper self aware and sick of the sight of myself? I disappear into one of my stories. I become many different people with different lives and sets of problems, joys, losses and loves and when I do that perspective is regained and except for being a snotty mess contentment is restored.

For the past month I’ve been living in the summer of 1990 when Ireland was another country on the brink of the boom years, full of optimism and ready to take on the world. We were in the World Cup and every man woman and child in Ireland celebrated. Against this backdrop I’ve been a young boy fighting to save his mother, an estranged sister returning home after 15 years, a young girl with a crush and stalker tendencies, a smart arse and best friend, a gentle giant, a genius with an attitude, a woman battling to hold on and a man in love about to lose it all.

Every character and story that I write is a break away from being me. I may have spent the majority of this month writing from my bed but it’s turned out to be a hell of a holiday.

I started my ‘Midday’ week on Wednesday and with a bang. We were talking about the Belgian Government’s proposal to ban the burka. I being the emotionally driven (or unstable depending on your viewpoint) individual that I am was all in favour of the move to ban or indeed mass burn the burka because I regard it and the Jilbab, Hijab, niqab, chadri and any other garb designed to segregate a woman from her surroundings as an abomination. I listened to those who debated the cultural verses religious origins of this distressing torturous phenomenon and it made me squirm in my own skin because we all know deep down and at a visceral level that these origins whether driven by culture or religion are man made.  

And then came the question of freedom, we live in a democracy and so how in good conscience can I or anyone else attempt to limit any woman’s freedom of expression regardless of how sad or angry it makes me feel and despite its implications for and limitations of that woman’s actual freedom? The calls and texts rolled in. A lot of women (and many more than I would have thought) supported the burka, some for cultural or traditional reasons some for religious and it was interesting to me that the only voice we didn’t hear from was a Muslim woman forced to wear the burka against her wishes. (And yes kids she does exist. She isn’t a phantom of this western woman’s imagination). But of course we wouldn’t hear from that woman because it makes sense that she would be as silent as she is invisible.

 My lovely fellow panellists were in part agreement with me but most definitely not wholly. Sinead Ryan (Our resident brain) believed in banning it but only when appropriate for health and safety reasons like for instance driving a car. That made perfect sense but than again Sinead isn’t an emotionally driven sap like me instead she is the paragon of practicality so failing to receive support based on my sanctimonious need to unshackle our new countrywomen I decided to jump on her bandwagon for a bit not just because I was feeling a little lonely but also because she’s right. If you can’t look left and right or your eyesight is limited by gauze you are a hazard to all around you. If Anna is legally bound to wear glasses or contacts to enhance vision when driving surly Afaf should be legally bound to remove her Chadri?

Open hearted and open minded Anna Nolan felt the ladies should be entitled to wear whatever they wished to wear because to legislate would lead us down a dark and winding road after all what would come next? Ban pyjamas in the supermarket? Call me a fascist but I’d be all for that. Or ban the hoodie because groups of boys wearing hoodies scare middle class women over the age of 30? Or ban high heels because they are dangerous and cause unsightly bunions?  I see where she’s coming from and again in a democratic society Anna Nolan’s argument is the sound one. Mine is the hysterical knee jerk one. My head gets it my heart is still unsure.

The lovely Mary Banotti who looks eerily like my mom and is as wise and kind as my own mom once was, trumpets all people’s rights but like me the burka and all versions of it saddens her terribly. And as Mary is the only one of us to actually have worn the burka she has an insight that I am glad not to share.  Mary a former member of the European Parliament was in Afghanistan for meetings, during her time there and while not forced she was encouraged to conceal her femineity furthermore she was told in no uncertain terms not to shake the hand of the men that met her.  Colette Fitzgerald told us in the dressing room that she had reported from the mountains of Pakistan and despite the intense heat and having to carry gear up hills and through tiny rural villages she choose to conceal herself, despite nearly dying of heat. My own foster sister Siobhan nursed in Saudi for a number of years and she too choose to wear the burka when out and about. I remember Siobhan telling me that in a certain area of town on a particular day of the week there was a chopping ceremony in which thieves had a hand cut off in full view of any and all who wished to spectate.  If a western woman was passing this particular area or street at the time of this weekly event she would often be manhandled by those present and pushed to the front so as to witness the atrocity as it unfolded. That is one of the reasons why Siobhan ‘choose’ to wear the burka. This choice these western women made was made on basis of foreign men’s stares and open hostility. This choice was made out of fear of repercussion rather than based on a personal desire ‘to give it an ‘auld go.’ One of the arguments for and against banning the burka is based on ‘choice’ but what is choice if it is predicated upon fear, compulsion or pressure? Is it really a woman’s choice to be isolated from the world around her? Is it really her choice to be uncomfortable and encumbered, invisible and limited? There will always be a few martyrs (or as I affectionately refer to them – lunatics) to any cause but for the most part I just don’t buy it.

And on what cultural or religious basis are these women being asked to hide away? Well let me quote a Taliban spokesperson to answer that one. “The face of a woman is the source of corruption for the men not related to them.” Ah that ‘auld tulip. Let’s face it, it’s based on the same cultural and religious notions purported by all the major religions throughout history in which women are not merely inferior (Adam’s rib my arse) to men but we are also described as incarnate of the devil or partners with the devil after all Adam would never have dreamed of consuming the forbidden fruit were it not for his being led astray by the sinful Eve. (In my book that makes Adam a bit of a gormless gobshite. Just say no Adam you effing moron) From the get go women are painted as corrupters of men. Then of course there are all those charming rituals such as the Jewish Mikvah or the Catholic Churching of women. The Mikvah was a bath designed to cleanse the female body during menstruation because menstruation was deemed suspicious, unclean and in some cases dangerous to the Jewish faith. The women would be segregated for 7 days because those who came in physical contact with a menstruating woman would be also deemed forever unclean. It’s funny in a kind of horrifying way kinda like ‘Crystal Swing’. In Catholicism when a woman had a child the local priest would be summoned to ‘church’ or cleanse her of the sin of giving birth before she would be once again welcomed back into the flock. Meanwhile the man who shoved his dick in his wife to contribute his DNA made the tea because sex and reproduction is only sinful and filthy if you are a woman.

Some say the Burka is to protect the chasteness and dignity of a woman because in the presence of a woman’s skin poor witless men are unable to control themselves and It’s not the man’s fault he can’t control himself, it’s the woman’s and why is man’s weakness woman’s fault? Because she’s evil and how can a mere mortal man control himself in the presence of the devil? We’ve been burned as witches, demonised and renounced age after age and by religious movement after religious movement. In fact in some cases the only thing Judaism, Christianity and Islam have in common is man’s desire to control woman.

The mother of Jesus is written as a virgin and of course she’s a virgin because sex is dirty and this mother has got to be set apart from all her filthy contemporises.  God is the creator in Heaven and we females are the creators on earth and yet instead of being hailed as being close to God we have been branded as gateways to the devil. As Catherine Tate’s nan would put it ‘What a load of old shit.’ And so as a free woman living in a western society I am afforded the right to give two fingers to the Catholic religion that holds little or no respect for me and that right has been hard won. It wasn’t too long ago that the women of Ireland were subordinate to their husbands, brothers and fathers and held hostage by a religion that found more sin in the bedroom than on the battlefield. As a liberal I’m no fan of any ban but as a free woman every fibre of my being wants to emancipate my fellow women from their male imposed bondage and some may not thank me but I hope one day their daughters will.

As a kid I hated needles, snakes, heights and flying in that order. As an adult I was forced to find a way to overcome my fear of flying and needles but I’m still pretty phobic about snakes and heights. Back then I’d run a mile if I saw a doctor or nurse coming at me with a needle. I’d have to be cajoled, bribed and finally held down while the doctor attempted to take blood or administer medicine and avoid my flailing arms and bucking legs at the same time. My aunt told me once that I’d change my mind about receiving an injection one day when I was in real pain. I laughed her off saying no way Hose but she was right. It took a car hitting me at approx. 80 miles an hour for me to truly appreciate a needle in my vein and I can honestly say having spent years in and out of hospital since that fateful night you could stick me for 24 hours solid and I’d barely notice. I say this with confidence because having extremely poor veins over the years the various medics I’ve encountered especially junior doctors have spent pretty much day and night trying to get one vile of blood, freaking out, sweating buckets and  tagging one another until eventually a nurse usually in her fifties got pissed off and did it herself.  And here’s a tip from me to you the reader of my nonsense, nurse’s who have been around the block are usually the best at taking blood.  They have a diviner’s sense about where that one good vein. The really good ones are in and out in seconds, they have a plaster slapped on before you know it and with a smile or a nod they usually say something cheerful to send you on your way. One or two of these ladies mentioned in passing that although I suffered with weak veins at least I’d never make a heroin addict so every cloud….

I don’t know when I first decided that I couldn’t bear snakes but it was early. I was a big fan of the zoo and so maybe it was there in that rank smelling dark creepy moist house which was home to the fattest longest ungodliest thing I’ve ever seen(Insert mental sexual innuendo here). Or maybe it was before I’d ventured to that rank smelling dark creepy moist zoo house, maybe it was when my first teacher told me that the reason we’d all been kicked out of paradise was because a snake had tempted Adam and Eve. We could have had it all Sneaky little bastard. One of my uncles lived in a desert in America for a while in the 80’s. He returned home with the skin of a rattle snake for my foster brother Denis, charmingly the rattle was still attached so he spent an entire evening chasing me with it. That definitely didn’t help. My uncle mentioned he’d skinned the snake himself and ate the meat which of course tasted like chicken. I couldn’t look a chicken for about six months but than again that could have something to do with my aunt chasing my foster sister Brenda and I around the kitchen with a bag of red bottle tops she pretended were chicken guts, in or around the time my uncle had returned from the desert with the already mentioned rattle snake skin. Brenda woke up screaming two days after the bottle top incident believing that a raw skinned chicken was hanging from her curtains. I was too hung up on the rattle snake which was nailed to the wall next door to my bedroom to worry about hanging chickens.  Because I live in Ireland, snakes have no medicinal purposes and you can’t use them for transport I will probably go to my grave phobic about snakes and that’s OK with me.

Heights are a bigger problem. I suffer from vertigo. The higher I go the worse my vertigo gets. I have tried to cure myself of the problem by forcing myself to walk up stairs or steps or get on the lift that took me to the top of the sky tower or empire state building just because every dog and their duck said “you’ve got to see the view”. The problem is that once I get up there I never see the view because my body becomes independent of my mind. My mind says all is well, look at the view Anna, isn’t it lovely. My body says hit the deck, face on the floor, hands cup back of neck, rock a little, curl in a ball, basically behave as though you are a mental patient on a day time television show. My pal Hallie and I went to see Leonard Cohen play in The Royal Albert Hall last year. We walked up the stairs to take our seats and when we got to our section I realised I was in the Gods. I forced myself into the seat. Hal kept saying “let’s just leave” because apparently I was becoming paler than one of Michael Jackson’s kids. I decided I’d be fine until my hands started to shake and I realised that my eyes would not open. I swear to God it was as though they were glued shut. Hal decided this was definitely not the way that I should experience Leonard Cohen so she got an usher to help her move the crazy lady in ailse G unfortunately this crazy lady couldn’t get out of the seat and walk instead I had to crawl on my hands and knees with my eyes screwed shut and follow the sound of my best pal’s cackle. I’ve been on clifftops in Italy and hugged the walls, I’ve swam in rooftop pools and never ventured near the side. I’ve had meetings in skyscrapers and kept my eyes on the desk, floor or person in front of me at all times. I tried and tried and I will probably never get over my phobia of heights, it’s a pain but it’s a fact.

When I started flying first I was petrified. I felt physically ill. My hands became clammy and my skin crawled. When the doors closed my chest tightened and I could hear my heartbeat in my ear. I wanted to run but my legs refused to move. I wanted to scream but my voice was gone. I was frozen with fear. That’s what petrification is and it’s bloody awful. In my twenties I got drunk every time I flew. I would go to the airport an hour or two early and shove as many gin’s down my gullet as was possible within the time frame I had given myself. I’d go onto the plane drunk as a skunk and I’d proceed to order as many drinks as the air hostess was willing to give me. I’d fall off the plane and depending on who I was with because I would never have flown alone I’d either be carried or wheeled off on one of those luggage thingy bobs through the airport and to the other side where I’d usually have to be sobered up with a tank of water or coffee or my head plunged into a sink of water before we ventured further.  When we travelled to New Zealand as a family to attend my foster brother Denis’ wedding I was in such a bad way my uncle plied me with so much wine that I ended up drinking at least two bottles from LA to Auckland that wouldn’t have been so bad if my foster sister hadn’t given me a pretty strong ‘valium’. The first time I met my NZ in-laws I swayed through customs with a red wine stained mouth and slurred the words, “lovely to greet ya,” before seeking directions to a place deemed appropriate to vomit. After that incident it became clear that I had to find another way to deal with my problem.  Flying is unavoidable so I gritted my teeth, meditated, sang the song ‘kum ba ya’ in my head and finally after too many flights to count I found myself able to breath comfortably. I still grip the seat a little too tightly on take off and landing but for the most part frustration has replaced fear.  The airport itself is now more daunting than climbing inside a metal bird. Having to deal with those stupid rules about the 50ml bottles because apparently you can’t make a bomb with 50ml of regular old shampoo but you might just swing it with 100ml is pretty annoying. The requirement to practically strip off and then redress standing over a grey bucket with some crabby half naked dude try to push you and your bucket off the conveyor belt thingy with his oversized laptop while your still only one boot on, irks a bit. The necessity to display your passport and ticket 9000 times and of course the 90 mile hike from security to the plane culminating in paying approximately €20 for a coffee at the gate café which the airport staff refuse to allow you to bring on board is less than endearing. I’ve had expensive perfume, conditioner, tweezers and a bottle of Evian confiscated from me going from Dublin to Kerry and that hurt. And here’s another tip for you security people don’t like Macgyver  jokes .  

Flying is one of my least favourite things but I was coping and then came the ash cloud. I began to fret again. Two of my flights to London were cancelled and one I cancelled myself because there was no way I was going to be one of the first one’s up there when the skies had just reopened. I did fly to France last weekend and I was on edge but luckily I was so exhausted by the onset of this new fear that I slept through it. I tried to pretend I was OK on the way back but that old familiar crawling feeling was slowly returning. We were flying Ryanair and it was the first time I’d flown Ryanair since I’d had to get shitfaced to get on a flight so basically France was my first time flying Ryanair. We arrived in Beauvais at 9pm for a flight leaving at 9:50pm and skipped through the customs delighted having had a fantastic weekend (See last week’s blog). At 9:30pm we were told the flight was delayed leaving Dublin. At 10:00pm we were told that we’d be updated in 20 minutes because if the flight didn’t leave before that time we couldn’t fly out of Beauvais because Beauvais is a no fly zone after midnight. Of course the flight didn’t take off and just after they turned off the landing lights it was announced that our plane had been redirected to Lille, we’d be bused there and flown out at approximately 5am.  They gave us yoga mats and blankets and that should have been our first clue that we were going nowhere. We chose to sit in the bar area and stay awake which was a good thing because around 3:30am my pal heard a whisper that there was no plane and those who didn’t want a refund would be forced to stay in Paris for two more days in an approved Ryanair hotel (Oh the humanity) before they could be flown home. At 4am we were on a bus to Paris and at 5am we were standing on a street hailing down the only taxi for miles while other sleepy passengers descended on us like zombies. I remember screaming to my pal Joanne ‘Just go, go, go.’ At 7:30 am we were sitting on an Air France flight headed for Dublin. We were 800.00 quid poorer but we were high on adrenaline. The nightmare that was our Ryanair experience kept us chatting throughout the flight and it was only when I reached terra firma that I realised I hadn’t been petrified.  Frustration beat fear. So thanks Ryanair. I’d rather catch a nasty case of the clap then fly with you again but credit where credit’s due, you saved me from myself and now forever more I’ll save myself from you.

My pal John Goodman is a World War 1 buff. He’s been passionate about WW1 since I’ve known him and this passion began when he discovered that between the years 1914 & 1918 three of his long lost uncles were killed in combat. Since he learned of his forgotten family he’s made it his mission to find them and find them he did. And in finding them he learned the tools to help others find the lost members of their family.

He approaches each mission with the requisite voracity required to investigate the circumstance and whereabouts of a man or boy lost amongst  47,000. Because 250,000 Irish men fought in WW1, did you know that? Until yesterday I definitely did not. 250,000! Of those 250,000, 47,000 died. 47,000 Irish men died in the space of 4 years fighting in a war that Ireland chooses to remember as someone else’s battle but 47,000 dead Irishmen suggests to me that is was our battle, after all it was a world war and as Michael Jackson put it so eloquently in the year 1985 we are the world.

John travels to France and Belgium every few months on his mini fact finding and relic collecting missions and when he decided to set up a company to bring Irish people on trips to visit the monuments and graves of the fallen Irish and of course the remaining trenches, tunnels and the fields where they died my husband and I agreed to be his guinea pigs alongside Joanne his long suffering wife.

So here I am sitting at a computer in a hotel in the beautiful rebuilt town of Ieper (Ypres) or Wipers as the troops used to call it back in the day. I’m sitting with a Belgian beer and typing in my jacket because having spent two days in graveyards and trenches and tunnels and cellars it may be May but November has set into my bones.

We started our journey in Beauvais airport yesterday morning around 8:30am and if France had an arsehole Beauvais would be it. We collected our car from the unfriendly AVIS man and made our way to our 1st stop on the tour, Beaumont Hamill – Newfoundland Park which is remembered and celebrated as the Canadian troop trenches but the reasons we were there was to remember and celebrate the Irish men who died there whilst trying to take The Somme. The Royal Dublin Fusiliers were amongst the 1st wave in a war that was supposed to last only 6 weeks. (Iraq anyone?…) We walked amongst beautifully tended gravestones, cut grass, flowers and John talked about the 1st day of the battle of The Somme. It was massacre 60,000 casualties in 1 day and 19,000 dead. He talked us through the reasons why and the strategies didn’t work and how the generals had got it so wrong. He talked about the men who were left lying in no mans land in agony lying next to rotting corpses whilst their comrades waited until nightfall to risk their own lives in a bid to try to retrieve them while enemies took pot shots at one another.  I was starving. We all needed to pee and it started to rain so we got in our nice warm car and headed for Thiepval and the Ulster Tower where there was the promise of hot coffee and a few mars bars. There we munched while looking at the bombs that went by the nicknames whiz bangs, and crumps for the sounds they made or toffee apples, flying pigs because of the way they looked.

Lunch was had in a village called Auchon Villiers or Ocean Villas as named by the lads. We ordered hot food and while it was being cooked the woman of the house Avril took us down to the cellar under her house. This cellar had been used as many things during the war, not least of which was an aid station. On the walls and using a flashlight she pointed out the etchings made by men like Private Malone a casualty of war or J. Crozier who was a boy of 19 held in the station when he wandered off following a shell attack. For leaving his post he was later shot at dawn. It was weird in that cellar, not in a heeby jeeby scary Mary way just dark, dank, depressing there was a piece of metal sheeting hanging above a old makeshift bed which was supposed to protect the eviscerated or limbless men from chalk, dust or clay falling on them from the roof above. The HSC isn’t looking so bad anymore is it kids? And the trench that took us out of that cellar was even more off putting, corrugated iron walls and intermittent ceilings, which were rusted and sharp and you had to bend low to go through so that you were facing the ground and mud underneath. Someone joked to watch out for rats which was more frightening than funny.  My husband was so on edge that he nearly shit himself when we emerged from the trench onto Avril’s working farm and he was set upon in a surprise attack by the current most fearsome weapon on the western front, Dolly The Sheep.  He yelped and practically jumped on Joanne’s back. Joanne has since named him Bah, Bah McPartlin and is taking the piss at every opportunity.

Yesterday we finished our day in Vimy Ridge and it was there while walking through the perfectly recreated trenches and tunnels that John explained the day to day agonies endured by the men and the tricks they employed to simply function never mind stay alive. He talked about the tined food, the sleep deprivation, the mud and the cramped conditions. He told us that to stay awake while on sentry duty the lads would rest their chin on their hand which rested on the point of the bayonet protected only by a piece of cloth usually a folded sandbag. If they dozed, the bayonet would prick their hand ensuring they woke and avoided being shot by either their enemy or their superiors.  He talked about being able to listen to the other side that were astonishingly mere meters away enduring their own kinds of hell albeit in slightly better and more elevated trenches. He talked about the night raids, the barbed wire, the constant shelling and these men and boys sharing their muddy holes with a population of rats who’d make China’s density seem low to medium and who were so fat from eating human remains that they were the size of small dogs. He talked about the heavy clothes they wore, the boots that were always wet and heavy and covered in thick muddy clay, the diseases that were rampant and the lice that was so prevalent the men would spend their time ‘chatting’ and this chatting is not engaging in gentle conversation this chatting refers to the burning of lice eggs out of the seams of their clothing using candles or simply crushing them between their fingers for temporary respite!!!!!

So just another pleasant evening in the trenches then…

 Donal wondered half way through the German trench what the lads did when they needed to do twosies. He actually said the word twosies this sent Joanne into a mini convulsion and while Jo and I laughed it up John explained how and where the lads did their twosies and I just don’t want to go there. After that we drove the 50 miles that brought us into Belgium and the beautiful rebuilt town of Ieper which initially appears like the town is named after a person with a horrifying flesh eating disease but that’s not a small L it’s a capital i and the place is pronounced eep as in weep without the w. Adding that W to eep would be apt bearing in mind the place was decimated between the years 1914 and 1918. There wasn’t even a tree left standing never mind a beautiful old town. Over dinner John discussed his plans for his tour company. He wants to keep the tours small limited to 7 people and he will customise them to accommodate those looking for a lost family member if requested. of course he’ll spend time doing all the investigation work before the tour even happens, he’ll pinpoint where the man fought and fell and he’ll find any and all documentation available on the man from articles to letters to certs and then he’ll find where that soldier is buried and if he is one of the thousands and thousands simply known as an unknown soldier. He’ll find the wall that bears the man’s name, his age and unit. I don’t know if anyone from my extended family ever served in World War 1 but today walking on field after tortured field, amongst craters from shellfire so large they could be swimming pools there were times I felt so terribly sad. And as we walked over crater after crater, concrete bunker after concrete bunker and by cross after cross I was reminded that although we were walking on lush grass and were surrounded by 99 year old trees and wild flowers abound every step we took was on the body of a man or boy who was blown apart, shot, gassed, knifed or suffocated and they had breathed their last on a barren, muddy, devastated moonscape. And although the scars are still evident the true horror of their last moments lie beneath pretty flowers and well worn tracks.

Last night over dinner we talked about what John would call the tours, The Great War Tours? Nobody really liked that. Or The World War 1 Tour? We all pretty much hated that. Joanne came up with ‘The Forgotten Soldier.’ And it’s good because that’s what John does he finds our forgotten soldiers. We didn’t like ‘The Forgotten Soldier Tour’ so if anyone has any suggestions for a peppy word that replaces ‘Tour’ and yet describes the business best we’d love to hear your ideas. John has a good job and this part time business is clearly not about making large profits so after dinner and after about 5 Belgian beers I asked John why is he is so invested?

“Because we left them here. We forgot about them and this is my way of bringing them home.”

And today having stood over the fallen from passchendaele to Langemarck I understood his passion. As his pal it made me proud because these people may have lived and died 100 years ago but they are still our people, the UK’s people, Germany’s people, Australia’s, New Zealand’s, India’s, Asia’s, Canada’s, America’s, France’s and the list goes on because The World War was after all a world war. And these people deserve their often short and treacherous lives to be remembered.

This is a poem that was written by a Private Tom Kettle from the 9^th Royal Dublin Fusiliers, it can be found written on stone in the Island of Ireland peace Park and I think it sums up the Irish and our role in WW1 best.

So here with mad guns curse overhead,

And tired men sigh, with mud for coach & floor,

Know that we fools, now with foolish dead,

died not for flag, nor king, nor emperor,

But for a dream born in a herdsman’s shed,

And for the secret scripture of the poor.

And on that note I’m heading off to dinner, grateful for the life I’m living and sorry that after 100 years the world is still at war.