Judith Cuffe's Blog

In the third trimester and 38th week of my third pregnancy, I had my first encounter with the fashion industry. I was super plus-sized. I could have relinquished my waters at any given moment. I hadn’t seen my (f)ankles in months. My boobs were like Cocker Spaniel’s ears, covered with a road map of blue veins. My fingers were thicker than Denny sausages. And… I went on National television to ‘model’ maternity wear.

It started out innocently.

I am the proud owner of a handsome son. At two and a half he was glorious; big blue eyes, button nose, cherub mouth, long blonde ‘man bob’ hair. (Disclaimier: No one over the age of two and a half should have a man bob.)

Spurred on by numerous declarations by strangers that he should be modelling, and the notion that I could perhaps start a College (Disney) fund with his earnings – I made an appointment with a well-known Dublin model agency to have his photos taken.

On the day, of said appointment, I was 22 weeks pregnant, with my 3rd instalment. I had surpassed the stage where people would wonder had I fallen off the food wagon and I carried with me, a neat but very obvious, basketball-sized bump. (I bake ‘em big). My hair was swishy, my skin was glowing and I was sporting my pregnancy uniform of skinny jeans, silk scarf, ballet pumps and massive sunglasses. With cute little angel boy, holding my hand, we swept into the office to be met with positive appraisal.

‘Oh, we are always looking for pregnant models?!’

‘Did you say model? Me?’ I pushed angel child to the back and proudly displayed by rotund form.

‘Let’s take pictures of you both?’

‘Indeed. Let’s,’ I replied cooly. (SWEATING!!!)

Oh my God – AM FAMOUS FASHION MODEL!

I smiled and posed, (not at all like me…ahem) and left with my head inflated to almost the same size as my rock hard basketball belly, making plans on how I would spend my thousands.

And then heard ABSOLUTELY nothing for another SIXTEEN weeks, until I got THE call. Ireland AM. Model. Me.  I had been specially selected from a panel of… ONE.

Oh my God – AM FAMOUS MODEL ON TV!

I briefly mentioned to the twenty-two year old (never seen a baby/held a baby/known anyone who’s had a baby) booking clerk that I was by now quite far along in the pregnancy, but undeterred, she instructed me to turn up on Monday morning at 6.30am in the studio with a few pairs of shoes (shoes? surely she meant flip flops) and my great big form.

A lot can happen in sixteen weeks.

At this stage I was carrying at least 8.5lbs of baby, approximately 2.5lbs of amniotic fluid, the placenta alone weighs approximately 1.5lbs, and I had at least 14lbs of Pavlova induced weight evenly dispersed around my body. But I didn’t care – I was FAMOUS FASHION MODEL.

It was time to call in the troops.

The S.O took on the task of the great big leg shave. This involved sitting in a bath and resting my tree trunks on the side, so he could foam and shave each water retentioned tubular object. My sister in law undertook the spray tan (like a great big hippo in a shower curtain), painted my cocktail sausage toenails, and with a tint and wax of the brows, I was done. It was the closest I have ever been to a make-over sequence, in a movie montage, but with very discouraging results.

By the time I rolled out of the bed and got there, I was exhausted. Being Famous Fashion Model is very hard work, but I was ready for hair and make-up. The excitement!

But it was my bubble and not my waters that burst.

There was NO hair and NO make-up. I had to do it myself. I looked down at the teeny makeup bag I had brought and wondered how I could create a full look from a lipstick. To make matters worse, the other two real ‘AM FAMOUS FASHION MODELS’ were stunning and their bumps were like crème eggs to my wrecking ball. Oh Christ – I panicked. My hormones kicked into overdrive, and I started to sweat. For anyone who has been pregnant, you will understand what this means. You spend much of the nine months in a constant state of overheating, and at that moment in time, you probably could have fried a rasher on the palm of my hand.

Luckily the real-life ‘AM FAMOUS FASHION MODELS’ were beautiful both inside and out, and were willing to share their magic make-up with me and I managed to get the face under control, fix the hair up as best I could, and I was feeling much better about the whole experience until I saw the maternity clothes. Sweet mother of God.

This was maternity wear for the elderly.

I acknowledge that women are having babies much later these days but this was a crime. NO, NO and NO. I had two ‘rigouts’ to wear. One was a cropped wide-leg white trouser thingy with a top that resembled a house-coat and the other was a miserable looking wrap dress, that would not fully wrap around my expanse.

It just didn’t work. I wanted to wrestle the ‘boutique’ owner to the floor and tell her she about to watch her business go up in flames, but she insisted I looked fabulous. The material of this barf patterned dress was splayed so far outwards over my bump, that I could have hidden Anne Franc and her entire family, in the negative space between my belly and the rest of me.

The ‘Catwalk’ was all of 2 inches long, so I had to come out from behind the screen, take one heavy step to the end, turn without taking Alan Hughes out (who took one look at me, one look at my huge form and asked, ‘do we need the ambulance on standby?’

The whole episode was a ground swallowing. This, coupled with the fact, that three months later I received a cheque for €40 for the pleasure (it wouldn’t buy me a pair of Mickey Mouse ears FFS). THE INSULT! It cemented the fact that my brush with the fashion industry was a one-hit-wonder, and I can indeed confirm that the camera does add at least 10 or 40lbs.

Let’s face it, I’m no model but, fashion is ingrained in my soul.

It’s not for everyone and that’s ok.

I appreciate that most people don’t get it and it might surprise you to learn that I applaud this. It is afterall, only fabric. But to me, it’s more.

It’s art, it’s expressive, it’s liberating and it’s fun. But the more and more I speak to people the more and more I realise how baffled they are about fashion; from not knowing what to wear to work, to weddings, to the pub, on a night out, in the daytime, in bed, in the shower, swimming, to a picnic, to a meeting? I have been absorbing fashion since the day I was born. From the Mothership, the sisters and every magazine ever published. When I was supposed to be studying for my degree, I was, in fact, sitting on my bed reading Vogue. Every time I go out for dinner I ensure I am facing outwards, so when The S.O is telling me a fascinatingly boring story, I can watch the fashions walk by. When I go to a party, I am marvelling at the style. It’s on my radar all the time. Here’s what I know.

TIP 1. STYLE IS EVERYWHERE

Look at someone whose style you admire and copy it. It’s probably a good idea to also ensure they don’t live in two-mile radius. The internet is your style BFF. Remember the movie Clueless and her computer that helped her make outfits? Well, now we all have that. It’s called Pinterest. If you have an item that you don’t know what to do with, then type it into Pinterest and by world wide web magic, up comes ‘pencil skirt outfits’ and dozens of ways to wear them.

If you are not on Instagram, then don’t come complaining to me that you have nothing to wear. Pick a few stylish people (bloggers /celebs/stylists) and watch how they do it. Chances are you already have some of the pieces in your wardrobe and haven’t thought to put them together in that way. These people are other level stylish, but if you break down their looks, most of the pieces are basic but with a sprinkling of personal style on top! You can do it. Remember for every designer piece there is a high-street equivalent.

TIP 2. NO NO, CAMEL TOE!

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If it doesn’t fit you, if it’s wedged up your arse or elsewhere (camel toe is a no) don’t wear it. It’s going to be uncomfortable and it will show. So please reverse slowly out of the shop. You can be comfortable and look stylish. It is possible. Please don’t get hung up on the sizing in shops. If you are a 10 and the 10 doesn’t fit you, it’s not you, it’s them. Get the bigger size and chop the label off if it bothers you. Bigger is best, that’s what belts were invented for. Look at Victoria Beckham. Oversized is cool and guess what, it makes you look smaller. If it makes you look pregnant and you’re not. Don’t wear it. Babydoll is for babies.

TIP 3. Fur Coat and No Knickers

Invest in Outerwear. I have more coats and jackets than anything else and since I live in Ireland, it takes transitional dressing to the max. We can often have more than four seasons in one day and I’m busy, I can’t risk a cold, so you need coats and jackets to help you.

For Spring/Summer I always have a Utility Jacket, a leather jacket and a denim jacket. For smarter wear, I love a light trench coat and it’s on my list to buy. If you have the outer layer right then you can wear whatever you please underneath. (Best to wear something.)

My pet hate is seeing someone in a fab outfit with a shite jacket or coat over it. NO!!!! You will wear a jacket or coat much more than a little top from Zara, that you picked up quickly, when you were supposed to be getting the chicken fillets in Marks & Spencer’s. So go buy a few jackets and you will get your money’s worth, year after year.

TIP 4. It’s in the Jeans

‘I can never find the perfect pair.’

Of course, you can’t. It’s like trying to find the perfect man. He doesn’t exist and neither do they. You need at least four pairs of jeans (you do not, however, need four men).

– You will need a skinny jean. These are most flattering with runners and flats.

– Black jeans for night time and winter.

– Boyfriend Jeans. YES. Everyone can wear these, they look awesome with heels and are     so darn cool. Wear with a few rips and don’t forget to tan your knee! Nothing worse,    than a hairy white knee bulging out of a rip.

– Fat jeans. Need I say more.

I don’t spend a lot of money on jeans. Zara often works for me. Find your shop and stick to it. Levi’s are having a moment and are a good medium price point. There’s no trick to buying jeans you just have to try loads of pairs until you find the right ones. It’s a day out. Make it fun / drink your way through it! Good jeans open up your wardrobe to loads of possibilities.

My favourite thing to wear is jeans, stilettos, a t-shirt, a blazer and massive earrings. So the person who asked me what to wear to the pub…wear that.

If jeans are not your friend, don’t wear them! Trousers are cool and infinitely more flattering.

TIP 5. It takes real planning to organise this kind of chaos.

Ok so I know I’m weird, but you have to plan. My friends laugh at me that the rigout is pressed and out on the bed well before I have anything to go to. The motto that I should apply to my food fits much better with my wardrobe…Fail to prepare, Prepare to fail. And when people say to me ‘you look well’, I respond,

‘This was no accident.’

Keep a note of things that you wore and felt nice in on your phone. It’ll give you an outfit at a moment’s notice! I have outfits ready for so many occasions that may arise but never actually do. I could head to the races, a polo match, a ball, a lunch, an interview and I can’t wait for the day that someone invites me to slip over to Monaco for Easter drinks!

I am ready for the life I want, not the life I have!

TIP 6. Age is an issue of mind over matter, if you don’t mind it doesn’t matter’. – Mark Twain

On my journey into middle-age it was one of the questions I asked myself. Should I dress differently now that I am in my forties, and ‘NO’ is the answer. I don’t feel 40. I shop in Bershka, Zara, H&M and there are people more than half my age buying similar. But it’s about how you wear it. I’m not going to buy ‘Mom’ jeans and wear them with runners and a bra top. I’m going to wear them with stilettos and a silk blouse and I bet I’ll look better in them. Screw that!

If your legs are still killer, then wear the mini skirt. Now, wear it with long sleeves or something demure, but wear it. If you have varicose veins and baggy knees, don’t wear it. If it looks good and if it makes you feel good there are no rules! There’s plenty of things that I can’t wear so I just don’t.

Just because you are middle-aged doesn’t mean you have to dress like a Nana. Maybe someday I’ll be more sensible, maybe not! But to me, there’s only one thing worse than dressing too young and that is dressing too old!

TIP 7. Man, you don’t know shit!

Dress for yourself. I stopped dressing for men when I was sixteen. Yes, you want to look good for your husband or your partner but what the hell do they know? Most men dress like over-grown babies, or like their fathers, so ZIP it.

You think what I’m wearing is weird? Well, I take that as a compliment. If you don’t understand it, I am glad, you are not meant to, I am dressing for me!

TIP 8. ‘I’ve always thought of accessories as the exclamation point of a woman’s outfit.’ – Michael Kors

You can make trousers and a blouse fabulous with the right shoes, bag and jewellery. These are the frosting to your cake! They are easy to buy as they always fit and they always make you feel great.

Good shoes that don’t turn up at the toes are key. You need (AT LEAST) one pair of flats (for this season it’s the slipper), one pair of runners, black stilettos and flat sandals. Please don’t wear sandals though if your toes curl under and tickle the soul of your foot. Your shoes can elevate any outfit from drab to fab. I can’t stress how much a pointy toe can turn your leg from ugly sister to Cinderella.

Get with the massive earring trend. They are all you need. For a night out, you don’t need to wear all your everyday jewellery. Take it all off and wear those big earrings and see what happens!

TIP 8a

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Unless you are a member of the royal family, are over 75, have a job as cabin crew or are going for an interview with the bank there is no place in your life EVER for flesh- coloured tights. I am willing to take the backlash on this. Wear dark tights or tan on your legs and brave the cold. Sally Hansen Leg spray (lightly applied, not like a burnt sausage) is your friend.

I am majorly allergic to tights and will often wear trousers or jeans to avoid them. But I understand that they are sometimes necessary so buy nice ones.

I feel I should mention something about underwear, but once I have used all my budget on clothes, there is rarely anything left over for the knickers! So I choose not to talk about my knickers. I’ve had the same strapless bra for twenty years. I am underwear failure.

TIP 9. Be French!

Ah, the Je ne sais quoi. The French just have it!

They have that effortless style done to perfection. They breeze out with un-brushed hair, looking as if they just threw the outfit on. And they probably did, they are French. But I am Irish so I need to work harder at my nonchalance.

The art of not looking too done, to me is the key to style. It’s the high-low dressing, of taking one hero piece and teaming it with something that’s not obvious. It’s the trick that always works. Please review the following combinations and vow to do at least one of them and then revert with your findings: GO Godammit.

– The sweatshirt and sequin pencil skirt.

– The wrecked jeans and tuxedo jacket.

– The Tux and T-shirt. (or as I once did the Tux and Trainers, only to be laughed at by…a man) It was that cool.

– The evening dress and leather / denim Jacket

– The jumpsuit with a utility jacket.

– The tailored trousers with trainers.

– The woollen sweater with huge statement earrings.

– It’s never being too matchy-matchy, that is for babies and elderly people.

– Try it!

TIP 10. If modern man is the missing link between apes and human beings then the t-shirt is the missing link between your jeans and your blazer.

Snooze, Snooze. These are the pieces that we don’t really want to buy but they connect all the items in our wardrobe together.

They are things like a nice (4) pair(s) of jeans. Just do it for God’s Sake.

Cami Tops. Essential for under blouses or jackets (H&M or The Kooples always do them).

T-shirts. I bloody love t-shirts with loads of stupid stuff written on them. But if you are more conservative you need a good black, white and grey. Go for a loose fit, no matter what size you are.

A good blazer in black or white or both. For spring try orange, red or pink.

Sweatshirts. They are the key to life. I wear them all the time! I am after all a mum. They can be dressed up and down. I love a grey sweatshirt with a huge necklace and jeans. Not too dressy but always looks cool.

TIP 11. Don’t throw paint at a dirty canvas.

If the hair and make-up is good, it probably doesn’t matter what you are wearing.

I can’t stand seeing someone in a lovely dress that just jumped out of the shower, ran a brush through their hair and slipped the dress on. YOU ARE NOT CINDY CRAWFORD. Put on your make-up. Book a blow-dry.

And for Jesus sake, rub a bit of fake tan on. There is nothing worse than a blue foot tucked into a beautiful shoe.

TIP 12. Look at the full picture.

Shop in outfits. If you don’t have something to go with it. Don’t buy it. Or buy everything to go with it at the same time, which is what I do and why I am so very poor.

TIP 13. ‘Always dress like you’re going to see your worst enemy’ – Kimora Lee

Weddings / Luncheons / Confirmations / Communions / Christenings.

Ok, so I obviously can’t include all of this in a single Blog as my hand would cramp but here are my thoughts…

This is the time to have the best fun with fashion. Think outside the box. Instead of a dress which can be dull as dishwater, go for a skirt and blouse, or trousers and a top.

A jumpsuit can also work really well. Except you may get stuck in it in the toilet and have to ask your friend’s husband to fix you and that could be embarrassing for you both. Make sure you can get in and out of it without dislocating your shoulder.

Why not try a really cool trouser suit? I would always say if in doubt keep it plain and work on the accessories, shoes and coat. You will also wear all these pieces again so it’s like a big huge investment, (I’m very commercially minded!).

I’m not anti-dresses. I’ve just bought so many that I’ve only worn once and if I added up the cost of them all I could actually be driving to Lidl in the Diamante Defender.

If you want to wear a leather jacket over a tulle dress to a wedding, do it! Style, should be interesting.

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Style is an expression of who you are but in the end, it’s all just rags. What makes us who we really are is what’s underneath, so stop stressing about it. That’s the great thing about getting older is knowing finally who you are, and having the confidence to be that person.

I am addicted to fashion.

I shop too much.

I have far too many clothes.

I think about clothes too much.

Sometimes I wear weird shit.

Once again,

Enjoy!

Love, Judy xxx

Last week I caught the tail end of a rumour. It wasn’t a nice one, in fact, it was the type that can destroy lives. As I listened to what may be just a rumour, or may not be, it awakened a memory, not really buried in my mind and I started to think about rumours and gossip and the reactions to them. There’s always the typical reactions, they are always more or less the same, so I sat back and watched them unfold.

    The Band Wagoner’s are typically terribly bored and possibly ‘slightly’ unhappy. They usually sport a functional anorak, have frizzy hair, perhaps a slightly deeper than normal voice. They are always utterly private themselves but thrilled to be part of another person’s drama. They may be peri-menopausal or menopausal but would never admit it. They are the first to cast a stone or give you unwanted legal advice. ‘Listen if you need someone to give you advice my cousin’s wife’s sister’s mother is a real big noise, she’d be delighted to give you free legal advice.’ NO, SHE WOULDN’T.

    The Head Downer’s know everything and have heard all the stories but pretend they know nothing. Known to hide behind a bush, wear sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a hoody, and pretend they are on an important business call to the New York office, (eh, isn’t your main office in Fermoy, Esther?) when they see you coming. ‘Listen, Mary, I’m too busy to listen to gossip, I have a HUGE job, tell me everything you know.’

    The Impartial’s are NOT GETTING INVOLVED. They are calm, collected and totally non-judgmental. Let’s call a spade a spade – The Impartial is always stuck in the middle. They don’t want to make life awkward for themselves. ‘I’m not going to choose sides, Frank, it’s nothing to do with me at all. I’ll just carry on as normal.’ Well sorry, Marjorie but you are involved and by not choosing, you’ve chosen. Choose a path. Sometimes you must choose yourself, but decide, Marjorie, just decide, for Christ’s sake.

    The Gossip Seekers – NEED to know everything, but can’t find anyone to tell them anything. Lurk around corners trying to earwig, finally are forced to invite you over for dinner to glean all the information and once they have it, they drop you like a hot snot and you never hear from them again. ‘There’s no smoke without fire, Francine.’ But sometimes there can be a fire without smoke.

    The Knee Jerkers instantly remove you from all WhatsApp groups, perhaps air their thoughts on a public forum, start a petition, and tell anyone they can. Usually, holier than thou, have a few skeletons in their own closets waiting to jump out. ‘I’ll avert attention from myself. I’m doing the right thing, Ann.’ They use the word DISGRACEFUL, more often than the word ‘And’.

    The Scaffoldings are often those that you least expect. They are the pillars of support, the ones that hold you up; the angels. There’s never as many of them as you thought but they are the ones who will help you ‘hide the body’. The ones that will stick their neck out for. The ones that make you realise it is quality over quantity every time.

Have you ever been the subject or the accessory to a rumour, an idle piece of gossip? Perhaps you don’t even know you have? But until you have, let me tell you, you’ll never be as quick to judge again.

There is nothing that can set you free quicker than honesty. Not with others, no one likes that person who tells you all the things you don’t want to hear. ‘I’m just being honest; would you prefer if I lied to you?’ YES!

No, those people are assholes. But the honesty I refer to is the type that is often the hardest to face; honesty with yourself – admitting the things that you might find difficult to utter aloud, accepting your shortcomings, laying it bare, being truthful.

Here is mine.

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For some time, last year, I wasn’t ok.

The year started like any other – starving, broke, booze-free, cutting down on coffee, jumping on and off the scales five times a day to see if your stance made any difference to the extra festive pounds. January turned to February, February turned to March, March turned to shit, and then everything changed.

I’m not sure how to explain it, without explaining it, but there was what we’ll call an incident, an occurrence, a situation, a glitch, a disagreement, a difference of perceptions, and after it, everything was different. I can’t say what it was, or who it was, well, I could, but I won’t. I won’t because this is not about what happened that day or about anyone else, but about what happened afterward, to me.

Looking back, perhaps I could have handled it differently, maybe I should have, and maybe I shouldn’t. But I found myself very alone and sinking. After ‘it’, I encountered a version or twenty of some of the stereotypes above and I crumbled.

Everyone always tells me I am strong, that things bounce off me, but this time they stuck, and I couldn’t understand it. It terrified me. Deep down I knew the truth, but I was scared, threatened, doubting my usual good judgment. I was angry. I was hurt. So, I reached out to a few people. After all, it’s ok, to not be ok. Isn’t it?

No. It turns out, it’s only ok not to be ok with certain people and with others, it is NOT ok to NOT be ok. I remember telling someone how I was feeling in a text and they answered. ‘Hope you feel better soon.’ End of story. B’Bye. See you never, except maybe an awkward wave, or dipping low behind the frozen section in Super Valu.

I diminished my circle. I spent time with my family, my husband. I let those who wanted to help me heal, help me heal, and those that didn’t, I watched slowly slip away, and I let them. Let’s face it, you’re never too busy to be a friend or to be there for someone, are you?

And then, I started to write my book.

At the same time, I started in a new gym.

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I got up. I got dressed. I went to the gym. I wrote. I hugged my kids. I went to the gym. I wrote. I went to the gym. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote.

For someone who claims to be so perceptive, I didn’t even realise what was happening while it was happening. And here it comes, my word of the year…I was evolving. It was only when I started to feel better that I realised how much I had been hurting and how much I had changed.

I’m a naturally bubbly person, I always have been. I remember someone once saying to me, ‘no one is that happy all the time,’ as if my joviality offended them. But I actually was that happy, until I wasn’t. And look, I don’t have a perfect life. I wasn’t happy because I had loads of money or big holidays or 12% body fat. I was just happy because I was happy and I suppose that can be irritatiing.

I’ve been told many things over the years, that’s the problem with being an open book, sometimes others think they have Carte Blanche to tell you their observations. That’s ok. I could be honest with them back.

‘That top is shite on you, Mary. Pure shite.’

‘You’ve a grand big arse on you, Esther. HUGE.’

‘Yes, you are a dick head, Marjorie. An out and out dick head.’

‘Oh, fuck off Dymphna, everyone knows you don’t answer every bloody message on the Whatsapp group. Zip it now.’

But why hurt someone by telling them their truth – that’s for them to discover themselves.

And that’s the truth.

Maybe you are reading this thinking this is my way of lashing out, of making a point. It’s not. I’m not writing this to annoy anyone, to point the finger of blame, to give a sly dig or to sell books. (Ok, maybe the book bit.)

I’m writing it because I find truth in writing.

When I reached ‘the end,’ of my journey, I tattooed the words on my arm, as a reminder that this time in my life happened, that I didn’t run from it or hide, I faced it – my way. Someone once aggressively shouted at me, in a hair swishing, highly dramatised manner, ‘the truth will out.’ Never a truer word was spoken. I believe it too. The truth will always out.

But who cares? We all know there are three sides to every story. We all know never to let the truth stand in the way of a good story and we all know that sometimes it doesn’t matter what the truth is; the damage is already done. But I found MY truth and that’s all that matters. I harnessed the hurt, I let it rip me apart and then I sewed myself back together, into a better version, (wish I’d taken a few inches off, while I was at it), maybe a little different, nowadays I keep my bounciness for those who deserve it, for those that love it. You must earn my bounciness.

The truth is, I wasn’t ok. But I am now. The truth is, there are amazing people who will guide you for no other reason than being good. There are people who came into my life in the last year, who made me giddy again, who made me – me again. The truth is, is that there are some people who are just not worth it.

Find your truth. Listen to it. It’s hard to face it. It will sting more than the birthing canal. Stare in the mirror and admit what you don’t want to. Or don’t. Whatever floats your boat. My truth helped me write a book, a lifelong ambition. My truth helped me reach the end of a horrible time and open the door to the next phase.

Every hard time will reach the end…and it will ALL have been worth it.

The truth is, IT IS OK, NOT TO BE OK. Because you will be ok again. You might even be better than ok. You might be absolutely Frickin’ Fabulous.

My book is called Evolve. Out real soon.

The end…

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‘Congratulations, you’ve finished.’

‘Yes, I’ve finished.’

‘Must be a great feeling.’

‘Yes, I feel great,’ I lie.

‘So when is it out?’

‘As soon as I can find an agent or a publisher. As soon as I finally have the courage to have it picked apart and rejected,’ I laugh.

‘I look forward to reading it.’

‘Yes, fingers crossed.’

So I wrote a book. I sat down at a time when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing anymore and I wrote a book. 388 pages. 97,878 words. More hours than I care to add up, more self-questioning than is absolutely necessary at this stage in my life. More hoping. More dreaming. More thinking, ‘is it too big a dream?’ Perhaps I should have kept quiet, hidden away until it was completed, kept away from social media. You see, I was lost. There it is plain and simple. I was lost and I genuinely thought that by completing this project, by realising a dream I had always secretly harboured, that I would find myself.

So I worked hard. Every minute I had spare, I sat and I wrote this story about three women. Three women, so different but all linked in one way – they didn’t feel as though they were in the right life. Sound familiar? I didn’t know where the story came from, until I read it back. In many ways it’s me. I’m Margot – feeling as though I’m running out of time. I’m Marjorie – feeling as if I’m trapped inside looking out. I’m Ann – feeling as though I’ll never find what I’m looking for.

What will I say if I ever have the privilege of being interviewed about the book?

‘So, tell me, where did the story come from?’

And If I ever have the privilege to answer, I’ll say, ‘It came from me. It came from feeling as if I wasn’t good enough. It came from wanting more, from wanting the life that I felt I deserved. It came from a place of feeling lost and scared, of wanting to change but not knowing how.’

‘And which character do you identify most with?’

‘There’s a little piece of each of them inside me – I think there’s a little piece of all of them inside us all.’ That’s what I’ll say, if I ever get the chance.

I was lost when I started writing Evolve. I hoped when I typed the last sentence that everything would come right. But it didn’t. I was still lost. Maybe more than I was before. I’ve become almost institutionalised in my writing. I’ve become a recluse and I’m not sure it suits me. I was always an extrovert, loud, annoying probably, loved a party, a night out, getting dressed up and lately I don’t feel like any of that. Because I’ve gone and done what everyone tells you not to…I put all my eggs in one basket, placed all my dreams out on display. I almost wish I was that person that claims to have a book in them, but is too busy to ever let it out. I let my dream out and now it’s out there and I don’t know what to do with it.

Evolve probably isn’t the book I should have started with. It’s too personal. It’s my baby. Or at least a very high fashion outfit that I’ve flung together and you run the risk of people saying, ‘What was she thinking, shorts and a see through tulle skirt?’ Perhaps I should have started with the kind of book I want to write next, something light and airy and funny. Like me. But instead I wrote a book that reveals my soul and maybe I’m not ready to have my soul torn apart.

I received my first, of what I know will transpire to be many, PFO the other day. Thanks but no thanks. Good but not good enough and it tore me apart. ‘You have to get tougher,’ they say. But the problem is, I’m not tough. I’m strong under pressure. I’m determined. I’m a fighter but I’m not tough. Are you ever tough enough to hear that something you created is not good enough? It’s like someone telling you that you are wearing something horrible or your kid has sticky out ears. (Yes that happened.) What would I say to that? The old me would shout, ‘fuck you, asshole.’ The new me would say. ‘I’m sorry I’m not good enough.’ For God’s sake, I almost got sucked in by a couple of Jehovah’s witnesses recently. The old me would have flung open the door and said, ‘back the fuck away.’ The new me, attempted to answer a question about the devil doing evil on earth!

So where did I go? Come back old me. Don’t evolve, you were perfect just the way you were.

And there it is. Just like that, I realise…I was perfect just the way I was. Not to everyone’s taste, of course, but perfectly me. I didn’t need to evolve. I was right here all along. Like Margot, like Marjorie, like Ann, like Judy.

So, today I sit here and write. I write the kind of piece, I like to write. On Tuesday, I’m going to chop my hair back to the way it was, when I liked it, before I started to grow it, before I said the words, ‘I may as well have it long one last time, before I have to cut it short.’ Like WTF? I’m forty, not eighty seven. I remembered why I don’t like my hair long, because it grows into a mullet shape and I don’t like mullets. I don’t like looking like Jon Bon Jovi in the mornings. I want to look like me again. I’m going to evolve back to the way I was before I decided I needed to evolve. I never needed to change. I’m frickin’ awesome. I’m great at a party. I have fabulous clothes. Jesus, if I had the money I would spend all day in Dundrum and apologise to no one for it. I’d give a big wave to the person I saw on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, hiding behind the rails in Zara, so as not to be spotted again. ‘Look, let’s not judge each other, we are both here every day. It’s ok. I won’t tell.’ In fact I might bring an extra coffee with me next time so we can cheers each other in the changing room. Because she’s obviously just like me – perfectly imperfect and fuck off anyone who doesn’t like it.

Will I ever get Evolve published? Who knows? I won’t give up trying but I won’t accept anyone telling me it’s not good enough. Not for them, yes, I can take that. But there is a place for everyone. My book is good enough, because I’m good enough. Evolve won’t change my life. I honestly thought it would. I thought I’d become this greater being with Winnie the Pooh pots of cash and even though everyone kept telling me it wouldn’t happen, I didn’t believe them, because I’m the type of person who still believes that dreams can come true. I thought that someone would pick up on it, throw me a lifeline, give me a chance, and change my life. Maybe a magazine would notice and ask me to write a ‘Judy’ column. Maybe I’d be asked to give inspirational talks to women who have a dream. Maybe I’d be asked to produce my own line of fountain pens. That’s the problem with having an imagination big enough to write a book – you start to imagine and sometimes it’s hard to stop.

But I know now, it won’t change my life because my life didn’t ever really need to be changed. Truth is, I need to find a job. I need to earn some money. I like earning money, it gives me freedom to do the things I like to do. I can’t keep working at this level for nothing. I’m not rich enough. I wish I was, but I’m not. So in the New Year I’ll try to find a job, or some other hair brained way to make money and then I’ll go shopping in The Kooples, because you know what, that’s who I am.

I love writing. I love words and no one can tell me, the way I arrange them on a page isn’t to the level they require. I’m at my own level. I’m no genius. I never claimed to be. I don’t have a degree in English. My punctuation sucks! But I have stories to tell, my way, and that’s what I’ll continue to do. I can pluck at your heart strings, like Jimmy Hendrix. I can make you cry, like The Notebook, and if I want and I KNOW I can make you laugh. That’s what I can do. I will write another book because the next one will be more me; light and airy and funny. Not for everyone, but appreciated by those who get me.

So I wrote a book. I wrote a book to find myself and I got so lost in it, I almost disappeared. I didn’t find myself in the pages. I didn’t find myself when I wrote ‘the end.’ I shared a dream. I shared a wish. There’s a saying about that. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

Do I have regrets? No. I wrote a book, that’s pretty amazing. I set out to do something, and I did it.

I became a little obsessed with it – let my hair get totally out of control, there was no excuse for that and I got lost along the way.

But I’m here now, back at the start and ready to never change again.

Judy

Evolve. By Judith Cuffe. On bookshelves maybe someday. Or maybe not.

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He appeared as if by magic. One day there was nobody under the bridge and the next, there he was. He sat perched upon the grey concrete ledge that formed the foundation of the green footbridge, that stretched perilously to other side of the motorway. At first it was the back seat passengers that took heed of a persistent presence in the mornings, as their parents grudgingly swerved around the corner onto the motorway, pulling them away from their sleepy little village. And later in the evenings, the tired drivers returning from work, had begun to regard the apparition that rested on the shelf under the footbridge, like an ornamental figurine, save the endless stream of blue grey smoke billowing from him and eerily reflecting in the headlights of their SUVs.

It only took a few weeks before the story of the man under the bridge, ran up the winding road towards the village on the legs it had gathered. Everyone was talking about the man and the mystery surrounding the suburban addition.

‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’

‘I mean, it’s ok now with the milder evenings but as soon as the winter comes it’ll be a different story altogether,’ the mothers observed, as they chatted amongst themselves, over steaming cups of skinny lattes following the school drop off.

‘Maybe we should do a whip around…?’

‘Or a cake sale…’ The suggestions left hanging in the condensation that filled the air.

It didn’t take long for the dandelions to drop little titbits of information, whispered in the wind, here and there throughout the village. The man had a name.

‘Mario, I think. From Slovakia.’

‘Or maybe Poland. Yes he’s Polish. Hasn’t a word of English…’

His arrival was accompanied by an air of uncertainty amongst the villagers. It was easy to live inside a bubble and look out, but suddenly there was a haunting presence peering inwards, as if holding a snow globe, shaking it and judging their little lives.

The road that led from the motorway to the haven like village, was a twisty wonderland of overhanging trees that over time had grown towards each other, and meshed together to form a magical tunnel of greenery. This gave way to a picturesque village, which was home to traditional houses and shops, which had over the years proved their worth, by the many movie sets that descended upon them and filmed for days to get the coveted twenty second shot. It was perfection. But now it was perfection with ‘the man’, who obliviously questioned their idyllic existence. It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore him, without feeling a twinge of guilt.

It was Mick Smith, the local minibus driver that first ventured down the winding road towards Mario, following a conversation with his wife. Mick, whose bus allowed him the secret privilege of an altitudinous view into people’s lives, couldn’t dismiss the constant and almost lifeless existence under the bridge. He utilised his bird-eyes view from his well-maintained bus, to studiously monitor the dwellers progress, before benevolently concluding that what the newest resident required was some underwear and warm clothes.

Jocks, socks, a lovely warm jacket and a thermal hat were duly bought, and with no motive for praise, gingerly delivered. Mick hadn’t been sure what to expect when he approached the man, brandishing the bag of clothing. It was in fact more than he would have bought himself in any given year, and so he subconsciously expected a little more than the grunt of acceptance that Mario delivered as he reached his arm over the bars of his self-appointed cell and seized the parcel, before gruffly stalking away. He stopped midway between the railings and his perch, turned towards Mick and pressed his thumb and forefinger together, before bringing them to his mouth and making a puffing gesture.

‘Cigarettes…coffee…?’ Mick questioned as he attempted to guess the gesture. Mario simply shrugged, made a ‘pffff’ noise and returned to his roost.

‘The ungrateful little so and so…’ Mick thought to himself, more than a little disappointed by the outcome of his efforts. It did give him a surge of pride however, as he witnessed Mario in the coming weeks walking the short distance to the village, dressed head to toe in the donated finery.

‘Ah he looks real smart…’ he told his wife.

Mick, who would often comment to himself, and indeed anyone that would listen that he was ‘a victim of his own generosity’ did enjoy driving past Mario on his early morning run, and seeing the polar thermal hat perched on top of Mario’s head; akin to Papa Smurf dutifully watching over his colony. But he’d done his part. Mick would allow someone else to step up now. It didn’t take long for the other residents to fulfil what they felt would benefit the squatter and gradually ‘The Man under the bridge’ became ‘The Man under the bridge with a sleeping bag’, then a tent, a deckchair and finally as one backseat passenger excitedly exclaimed one day, ‘Mario has a laptop!’

Many embraced Mario into their routine. Colm McGrath would order and deliver an extra carton of egg fried rice to Mario, on his return from the Chinese takeaway every Saturday night. Susan O’Shea had taken to baking an extra loaf of banana bread every Sunday night and would tentatively deliver it after the school run. She would leave it by the side of the railings and bolt back to the car, the engine still running for good measure. You could never be too sure.

There were of course a few animated villagers that claimed he was quite the talker and he had revealed his name, country of origin and desire for more tobacco to them during one of their ‘regular’ visitations.

‘Ah he’s a lovely fella, a real gent…yes from Poland. Not exactly sure how he wound up under the bridge…I didn’t want to pry…’ Of course these were the very ones who had not made the journey to the camp, nor made any effort towards making his stay with them more comfortable, but not wanting to appear uncharitable or behind the game, had…well…improvised.

By December, Mick Smith, commented to his wife that Mario seemed to be, ‘better off than most around here.’ The camp now extended from the concrete shelf, all the way down on to the grass verge, right to the edge of the green railings. ‘I’d say he gets more of a decent meal than I do!’ he grumbled to his very patient wife, who was by now well accustomed to her husband’s many similarities to Victor Meldrew.

Colm McGrath was also growing concerned, especially with the amount of rubbish that was now accumulating around the campsite and said as much to Mick during their weekly pint at the pub.

‘Sure there’ll be an army of them there before long…it’s a bit of an eyesore really and you won’t bloody believe what I saw there today…’ he laughed to his friend.

‘Sure they’ve all lost the plot…’

True to Colm’s word as Mick rounded the corner early next morning, just inside the camp stood a fully decorated Christmas tree, complete with tinsel, baubles and battery operated lights. Mick chuckled to himself, but looked up just in time to see Mario, sitting stock still, outside the tent, with the polar thermal hat balancing atop his head, smoke billowing from his mouth, just as he had been on the first day he’d arrived five months ago.

Christmas Day crept in and by the end of it, the villagers had individually delivered sixteen hot plates of turkey and ham with all the trimmings, wrapped in shiny silver tinfoil to the man under the bridge.

***

Terry Dwyer had always been a man of few needs. He had led a simple uncomplicated life. He’d worked hard all his life in the confectionary factory, just a stone’s throw from his two bed terraced house in Dunlee, that he had eventually inherited from his parents. An only child, he had nursed them until they had closed their eyes for good, just four months apart. It was shortly afterwards that he met Maggie, although she too had worked at the factory all her life. They were forty-two years old by the time he finally plucked up the courage to ask her for a drink after work.

‘The odd pair,’ the younger workers would snigger. Maggie too had no family to speak of, aside from one sister who had spent her whole life wanting for more and was only too happy to distance herself from Maggie upon their parents passing. A private love affair between the odd pair ensued and after six months they headed off to Rome for a week and had married, with only themselves to celebrate. They had wonderful years together, just the two of them, and had happily kept themselves to themselves.

They had been blessed with a pure love, with no motives. They wanted nothing from the other except what they had to offer and he loved her with every molecule of his soul. After they married Terry’s memories split into before and after. As if everything that came before Maggie, was just a practice run for their definition of a perfect existence. But perfection never lasts and too soon around the next corner his precious Maggie was diagnosed with breast cancer and died in Terry’s arms one week shy of their eight wedding anniversary.

Terry had left his job to care for her. He had been careful with money and now had a nice little nest egg to tide him over. The day after the burial, Terry had taken the bus to the outskirts of Wicklow and having spent the day wandering the village had stopped for a rest under the footbridge. He just wanted to be still. To think. To breathe. To feel. To let the pain wash over him and… He had stayed.

On 26th December, Terry packed up the camp that had grown with the generosity of the village. He hadn’t wanted to deceive them, he just wanted to disappear for a while, to lose himself where no one knew him. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to hide within himself. Terry realised that it was difficult to totally disappear. He had stumbled upon a place that allowed him to grieve in his own way.

They hadn’t known…but they had kept him alive.

Terry had not been missed from his own life, which was no longer his own. He would have had more peace if had stayed where he was, he mused to himself, as he disappeared once more into the misty December morning. But it had taken an entire village to help him reappear in order to disappear once more.

But it was time now…time to live again, to wrap up loose ends and start afresh, with his memories of Maggie and his gratitude to them tucked inside his new jacket. Perhaps he’d go back to Rome…

***

‘You won’t believe it,’ Mick told Colm that afternoon, after he decided to bring Mario a belated Christmas present of the much sought after tobacco.

‘Up and left in the night…’

The news filtered quickly through the village, carried on the icy snowflakes that had started to land within the snow globe. They all pondered where Mario had gone, after he had tidied up the camp and folded the donated clothes and sleeping bags. Life resumed, as it always does and they wondered but never searched…

‘Perhaps he was a reporter…?’

‘Undercover…?’

‘Maybe he was deported back to Poland…?’

‘Nah…’ Mick said one night.

‘…I’d say he just wanted a bit of peace.’

Mick still puzzled every so often though, as he rounded the bend in the bus with the elevated view…

‘I wonder what ever happened to that jacket I bought him…’

The end

Be kind to others but most of all be kind to yourself…

Last Saturday night we attended a surprise fortieth birthday party. It was for one of my school friends and her family had organised and were lovingly hosting it in their family home. Obviously she had no idea as we had carefully avoided her for many weeks, dodged whatsapp messages and hidden under the bed when she questioned what anyone was up to for the weekend. As someone with a great big mouth, I was mindful for once, not to be the weakest link and discuss any plans. This proved intensely challenging as I was unable to reveal my outfit choice nor post my carefully angled pictures to Facebook prior to departure.

I had also spent much of the week fretting that she would arrive for the ‘intimate’ family dinner, sans make-up, with her hair thrown up in a scrunchie, wearing a Gola tracksuit.

My fears were quenched, as we all packed ourselves into the kitchen, sweat dripping off us, trying to be quiet, shushing each other. As she swung open the back door, her jaw dropped to the floor, we yelled ‘SURPRISE’, she nearly died, slammed the door to collect herself, only to re-emerge a few moments later looking absolutely stunning.

Phew!

Thank goodness for older sisters, hair appointments and a well invested in wardrobe.

But me being me, while tossing and turning in bed on Sunday night, willing all the practically neat gins to sweat out of my body, so I could succumb to a peaceful slumber, got to thinking…

…well about life! (Ah jaysus, here we go)

About moving into the dreaded fourth decade and towards middle age, about family and friends and ourselves. She had mentioned throughout the night how excited she was for the curtain to finally fall on the challenging thirties and to be advancing towards what I hope, will be a phenomenal era for her. A time that she deserves, more than anyone. A time that I know will bring her happiness and possibility. I hope she won’t mind me revealing, without giving away too much, that she has had a tough few years. As have I, but for different reasons and it immediately struck me that she was so willing to enter a new phase while I was hanging about clutching tight to a time that actually, has not been all that kind to me.

Or a time during which, perhaps I have not been all that kind to myself.

And I began to ponder my addled state and my hesitation to embrace what lay ahead?

Why was I so reluctant of the future?

I already know it’s not really the age, which is after all just a number. I’ve alluded to the fact that I have perhaps not achieved all I set out to. I’ve goaded myself as to why I didn’t start writing years ago, why I was letting life pass me by, why I was ‘arseing’ about trialling various careers, searching for ways to make money, while staying committed to the only role in which I’ve ever really experienced success in; being a mother.

I had always known that I wanted kids, aside from a brief spell in school where I would nonchalantly declare that I would remain childless and single, with a fantastically promising career, a lover and a convertible. But as soon as they were born, all I wanted was to be with them as much as I could and I’ll openly admit that if finances had of allowed, I would never have worked again. I probably still wouldn’t have become an accomplished cook, but it’s what I wanted. And it seemed so unfair that the very thing that came easiest to me was unachievable.

I know there was an easier path I could have taken over the years. I am well educated. I used to earn a decent enough salary doing my pretend Marketing job and I’m good with people and of course we could have done with a strong second income. But I chose a more difficult path. I chose to try and be home with the kids, working in areas that were probably not really for me, so I could work around their needs, which of course we all know are unrelenting.

And it was bloody hard. Being a mother is bloody hard. No matter what way you chose to do it. If you choose to continue working full time, it’s hard. If you choose to give up work, it’s hard. Or if you choose to attempt both, it’s hard. I chose the latter. I chose to try and do both, well more out of necessity but it was the only way I could see to try and have my cake and eat it.

Do I regret it?

Maybe a little. I was running about like a headless chicken, probably doing everything at half speed. It would have been easier to be in an office, on a salary, utilising childminders and taking favours from family where I could get them. It would have been easier not to be self-employed, to be able to get a car loan and a people carrier and be time poor. It would have been nice to have guaranteed holidays and time off, secured through the dreaded holiday request form submitted in January before Mary from accounts takes all the good days for her yearly trip to the brother’s pad in the Algarve. To pay into the pension and possibly have the Vhi covered, to keep my parents happy and off my back and yes it probably would have been easier.

But it wouldn’t have been me.

Instead I did it in my usual non-conformist manner, facing criticm from those who had already experienced life. I’m not saying it was the right way but it was my way. Always a little bit scatty, always a little bit erratic, probably frustrating to watch, but never dull.

I recently had a lengthy discussion with a friend, during which I scolded myself at my stupidity for not putting the head down years ago and chasing my dream, for not having started to write, for not having six books published by now and my face on the cover of Woman’s Way and she simply said…

‘…because you just weren’t ready, it wasn’t your time.’

Yes I suppose our time comes just at the right time. Just when we are ready and it is the precise moment you begin and endeavour to continue. What made me open the laptop that day after talking about it for years? What was the feeling that made me decide I was ready to open my heart up to the possibility of a possibility? Was it the fact that I was thirty-nine and sitting on top of an invisible ticking time bomb? No.

It was just my time.

And was everything that came before that a great big failure?

No. I was doing what I needed to do.

Why was I so bloody hard on myself?

Because I am me.

Why couldn’t I see what I’ve achieved so far?

For the last thirteen years I’ve been a loving mother. I’ve so far produced three relatively well adjusted humans. Three humans that now have little lives of their own going on and The S.O and I are slowly coming out the ‘other side’, into a time where we can once again pop to the shops, or go for a drink, without multiple babysitters, ‘Nana intervention’ and many moving parts. I’ve worked alongside my husband to keep the ship afloat, at times sacrificing my sanity. We are no great success story but we’ve worked hard, taken the heat from the few bad decisions, carried on regardless.

I built up a business and ran it with dedication for five years, until someone bought it. Yes, I sold a business. (For bog all money mind you but none the less somewhat of an achievement, no?)

There are least twenty people in my life who may jump in front of a moving vehicle for me and probably two that would push me under one, but I’m pretty happy with those stats.

I am fit. About six years ago, I took up running. I had never even ran to the car and I now I run, so very slowly but it is none the less a faster movement than a walk. I am a wunner, a walking runner!

I am honest and kind. I have never set out to intentionally harm anyone or bring them pain and I have huge empathy for others. I care about what people think because I care about people. My heart is permanently affixed to my sleeve.

I love my husband.

I love my kids.

I love my family.

I love my friends.

I love my dog.

And for the past while I have forgotten but I’ve suddenly remembered…I love me.

I have been so hard on myself lately. So down on myself. In fact if I treated anyone else that way they would surely run (very slowly) away from me.

Two weeks ago on the day that was my time, I started my first book. I sat down and I wrote. I created characters and a story and gave it the title ‘Evolve’ and it started to pore out of me, like I had been holding my breath for years. And then just like only I could manage, I somehow deleted the whole blasted thing. But then I shocked the shite out of myself because after a high volume panic, (very in character) I did something most out of character. I sat down the next morning and wrote solidly for eight hours until I was back to where I had been before the moment I forgot to press save, because I want this.

It’s my time.

I know it won’t be easy to complete this book and I’ve probably tainted it by telling people prematurely, but I don’t care. I want you all to ask me. I want you all to push me. I want you all to come along for the journey.

The story I am ready to write, is not about me, or anyone I know in particular, but I hope you may see a little bit of yourself somewhere in it. It’s about three women and their evolution, it’s about discovering that our circumstances are not what defines us. It’s a story of trying to be more, trying to do better, fighting for the person within. It’s a love story I suppose. Of learning to love yourself. And I recognise that perhaps the likelihood of it ever getting published is probably quite slim, as I trowel the internet at night on how best to get a publisher on side and how I need an agent and that it’s a cut throat business and I have no idea really where to start, except to sit down and write and maybe let some greater power take care of the rest.

On Saturday night, I stood in my friend’s childhood home that had plenty of memories for me and a trillion memories for her. I looked around at a beautiful home largely unchanged from our childhood, at my school friends and their partners, my husband, her family, all a little bit older, all looking the same but different, as if a very talented make-up artist had quickly added old people make up to our faces. It was like 1994 but in many ways better.

I’ve had a few months lately that I’d love to forget, a few challenges that came along unexpectedly and for the first time in a long time, in amongst many people who I love and admire, I felt a little bit of excitement for the future, a little bit of sunshine creep into my soul. Maybe it was my terribly chic yellow dress, maybe it was the barman who was obviously using a measure from Spain to pour those gins, maybe it was because there was a whole pile of love in that room or maybe like her, I’m just finally ready for the future. Whatever it holds.

Maybe it’s my time to Evolve.

It’s time

Sometimes you care so much

You want the flower to grow,

You smother it with water

To nurture what you sow

You shine your light upon it

To make the roots glow,

But the rays are so strong

That the growth begins to slow

You wonder what is wrong

Why the blossom does refuse,

You did what you promised

Why is this flower obtuse?

You try a different tact

Leave the flower alone,

And suddenly the flower

Starts to blossom on its own

Be kind to yourself

Remember you know best,

Believe in your dreams

And leave time to do the rest.

To Lou. Wishing you the happiest decade yet. Ready if you are! Ju xx

WARNING: THIS BLOG MAY INDUCE BARF

If you believe in love, you also believe in destiny, that hidden power that controls every future event. The secret force that can place us in the exact place, at the exact time in the exact situation that we were meant to be in. But do you ever wonder, how life may have turned out if just one moment in time was different, if one action, one word, one motion never took place how the rest of our existence could have been totally altered? I believe in that greater power that can place us sometimes in the wrong place and sometimes right in the instant that will determine the rest of our lives.

I also believe in love.

I met him in when I was twenty four years old. He was just eighteen, so there was a significant age gap that may have caused various problems in the future, but love always has a way of working things out. As any twenty four year old would be, I was out with a group of 5th year students, dressed in a pink suede mini skirt and a black top. My current boyfriend, also eighteen, (it was a nice round age that probably came with a form of vehicle that to any twenty four year old would be deemed shit cool) had just had the, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, very serious conversation with me, and while I was pretending to be heartbroken by this undramatic turn of events, my 5th year friend, made it her mission to plough me through the recovery stages of unrequited love at break neck speed. Even at her tender age she wisely acknowledged that the only path to full rehabilitation was to get straight back on the horse and so she set about introducing me to several of her boyfriends’ friends.

The third was a charm.

It had taken approximately thirty-seven minutes to heal my severed heart and to swiftly hand over the key. He was confident, he was handsome, he had great big cauliflower ears and he was only momentarily taken aback when I revealed that I was in fact only sixteen and had swiped my sister’s passport from the flowery box on the third shelf of her pine shelving unit to secure my entry into the pub.

He chatted for most of the night, I listened, terrified I was going to say the wrong thing, yet secretly feeling cooler that Shaggy blasting out ‘Boombastic’. I smoothly informed him that I hated rugby, everyone who played rugby, anything to do with rugby, asked him was he born with those ears, nearly choked on my Bacardi Breezer tropical fruit flavour, when he told me he had earned said ears from playing rugby and issued a detailed description of his trophies filling with blood from ear trauma in the scrum. Eugh. I struggled to keep down my Bacardi Breezer and quickly deflected by revealing that I had just been heartlessly dumped and that my ex was at that very moment snogging the face off someone else a few feet away and that I most definitely not looking for a relationship.

‘No, no, I’m done with men, I’m just going to stay single and enjoy myself.’

(I’M SO LYING, I’M FULL OF SHIT, I’M NO SHAGGY.)

‘That’s a pity’, he said as he leaned in to kiss me and that was it…

A few weeks of wondering, dreaming and hoping followed where I gleaned any information I could from anywhere. We scoured the Blackrock Annual, even flicking past the swimteam, a usual giggle inducer, straight to the rugby photos and there he was, smug as f***, probably out training and smoking fags at the same time, driving about in his Mum’s car, probably not even thinking about the highly mature sixteen year old who wasn’t looking for anything more. No phone call came, no note shoved under the front door, no news until…one of the girls in my year revealed that he was friends with a mutual friend and she had issued an invite to him to her 17th (yes that was a thing) birthday party.

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS HUGE!

He walked into the party, I looked up and did exactly what only I would do…I bolted to the bathroom and hid until one of the girls came in, gave me a sharp talking to and shoved me out the door for a date with destiny. We escaped the party and sat in the back of his mums Fiat Chroma (some car, deceivingly roomy don’t make ‘em like they used to!) and talked and talked and kissed and talked. It was the stuff of teenage movies. Innocent and sweet.

I wrote my number on the inside cover of a mix tape and in doing so signed over my heart forever.

He was different. He didn’t drink much, he conversed openly with my parents (tick), he had almost full usage of the Fiat Chroma (tick), he was well brought up (tick), had parents who still held hands, was hot (tick tick tick) and over the coming months, in one of the hottest summers I recall (temperature wise– keep it clean people), we fell in love.

I know, I know. It’s vomit inducing, but it happened.

We spent literally every moment we could together, until he told me that he had won a rugby scholarship and would be heading to New Zealand for the following academic year, while I stayed behind to do my Leaving Cert. My parents were bloody thrilled! So I again did what only I would do and I waited for him. We got to know each other through long letters posted every week and one phone call on a Sunday, he returned at Christmas for two blissful weeks, I studied, finished my exams, got into college, he returned, got a job in the Bank (solid) and our story began.

It’s pretty unremarkable really.

Very predictable.

Very safe.

Very us.

It’s our story.

The early years didn’t pass without their ups and downs, a few break ups, we saw other people during those times, but we always found a way back to each other, we always knew this is how it would end. I remember sitting on a curb, down the road from my parents’ house that first summer and talking about our future, wanting time to go quickly, to speed through the early days and now I’d give anything to be those two kids again for a moment, innocently planning a life that has taken many twists and turns and unexpected bumps.

We couldn’t wait to be married. We couldn’t wait to be where we are now but it’s so easy to forget our perfect moments and memories that brought us towards the vows we made to each other eight years later. And it’s funny how we can sometimes conveniently dismiss or ignore those vows during the demanding years of career and parenthood and how it’s perhaps no harm every so often to utter them to yourself or each other just as a gentle reminder during those times, that everyone of us that has ever been married, have experienced.

For better for worse.

For richer for poorer.

In sickness and in health.

All the days of our lives.

We’ve done, better for worse, for poorer, in health and we are in the throes of all the days of our live, rich hasn’t hit us yet, or sickness but we’ll get through, we always do. Now, I may be a hopeless romantic and please don’t imagine for a moment that I am even alluding to the fact that I have a perfect marriage because like the perfect jeans, it just doesn’t exist. I’m not a perfect wife nor is he a perfect husband, we don’t have perfect kids or perfect lives and I’ll be the first to throw my manicured paw in the air to admit that marriage is tougher than doing boot camp in your wedding dress.

It’s daily tough and sometimes it’s for life and sometimes it isn’t and that’s ok too.

Sometimes you fight like Conor McGregor to save it and sometimes you need to jog on.

There’s very few things in life that I’m serious about. I joke a lot, poke fun a lot but I have and will always be serious about our marriage because without getting too deep, he makes me a better version of me and I make him a better version of him. I grew up with him, grew into a wife, a mother and grew into myself, with him steadfastly by my side.

And yes I can be more challenging than playing Countdown blindfolded…

I remember once in our first year of marriage, following a fight about something I can’t even remember, ordering him to go to the attic and retrieve my suitcase. I was leaving. It was dramatic, it was volatile, it was me. So he did. He pulled down the handy retractable ladder and fetched my suitcase.

(Shit, didn’t think he’d actually do it.)

Determined, I dragged it into the bedroom, slammed the door and sat on the bed for a moment to allow him time to come in and stop me.

(Balls, this is taking a long time and I’m quite hungry.)

Not giving in and realising that he was calling my bluff, I started to pack.

(Crap, this is going to make a mess and I’m going to have to put it all back in a minute.)

I proceeded to pack my suitcase just with the folded jumpers that would be easy to put back in place when he came in to apologise.

I waited…

And waited…

And nothing.

(For Christ sake, I’m going to have to go through with this charade).

‘I’m packed now. I’m leaving. Do you have anything to say?’

‘No’, came the calm response.

(FFS, where the bloody hell will I go…)

Slamming the door, I shoved my suitcase of knitwear into the boot and drove around the block a few times, knowing I couldn’t tell anyone what a complete knob I was being and so, tail between my legs I was forced to return home. Dragging the suitcase of sweaters back into the house, he was at the door and we burst out laughing.

This is my husband.

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Annoyingly calm, unflappable in a crisis, a rock of stability to me and my loopy ways. He has always supported me in every endeavour. He has always supported my fashion habit, will go without to ensure I have what I need but most of all he believes in me. He was an instant father from the moment our kids were born and never left me holding the baby.

He’s see the positives in everything, even if I told him I had been shitted on by a flock of flying ostriches, fallen down a well filled with rats, broken all my limbs and one of my nail art nails, he would say, ‘well at least your hair looks nice’.

Now he’s no angel and suffers from a severe case of social Tourette’s, which means he puts his foot in it on a daily basis. I’ve had to rocket launch myself across a room many times to put my hand over his mouth to stop him saying the wrong thing and there’s been many car journey’s on the way to a party where I coach him with what’s going on with everyone lives so he doesn’t immediately open with…

‘Lovely to see you Mary, how was rehab?’

He has more flaws than a silk blouse gone through the tumble dryer with a bag of razor blades.

But then…so do I.

We’ve battled through the ‘jocks on the floor’, financial struggles, ‘I’m not your bleedin’ mother’ arguments, sleepness nights with kids, family issues, career changes, the most challenging time when he announced he was now a vegetarian and destroyed our chances of ever been invited to dinner anywhere again, when he took up doing 100 mile races like Forrest Gump running in his good slacks and more.

And there’ll be more to come, of course there will but there is literally no other person I would want to do it all with.

I’m not too good for him, nor him too good for me. We are just good together. We are good at being a disaster together. He stands right beside me, not behind me. He recognises that I myself am strong, even when I don’t feel it but let’s me lean on him when I’m tired.

I’m no expert on marriage.

Some work, some don’t. We work most of the time. Some days better than others. But I do believe in love with all my heart. Real pure love. The kind that exists everywhere, behind so many doors, in so many hearts. It may be your husband, or wife or your best friend or your sister but real love is everywhere.

We just have to open our eyes and our hearts to it.

And we may not always get it right the first time, maybe we only find it once, maybe we find it second or third time around. Life can be full of hurt and anger and pain but it’s also full of love and kindness. It’s our choice what we let in.

I met him when I was sixteen. I signed away my heart on the inside of a tape.

For Better For Worse, For Richer for poorer, In Sickness and in Health, All the days of our lives….every challenge I overcome with you…

Now FFS give me the RICHER!!!!!

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(To BO’C. Thanks for mending my unbroken heart.

To him, if sometimes I forget, I’ll always remember in time.

As sure as the sun rises every morning, it always forgets to shine in Ireland. As little as five times a year, I receive the phone call from my oldest friend on a rare vitamin D infused day to say…

‘Well Mary, ‘tis like downtown LA here’…

She is in fact in Rathgar and is more than likely marvelling at the speed at which the Irish are able to get their ‘summer on’. No sooner has Evelyn Cusack uttered, ‘long periods of sunshine with highs of 20’, and the legs are shaved, the toe nails varnished and we are doused in St. Tropez mouse. Last year’s barely used Lidl factor 30 is seized from the bathroom cabinet, the shorts and vests grabbed from the top shelf and Frank is out mowing the still saturated lawn and dusting off the barbeque. We head to work in our beach clothes at the first sign of sun and can dress highly inappropriately at a moment’s notice of heat.

God love us, we are ready!

We talk about the weather a lot in Ireland, constantly speculating the rainfall and every high and low. I often consider, if we spoke about our feelings as much as the weather, we would be the most well-adjusted nation in the world. We are so starved of that summer high, that when it fleetingly checks in, we embrace it with every fibre of our being, and for those few days we immediately STOP and appreciate life.

Last weekend, we were gifted three days of pure sunshine, (in what may have been our entire summer quota) with the added bonus of a Bank Holiday weekend. It was so rare that we headed into the weekend suspicious that this could in fact be a trick and the end of the world was nigh. As I blissfully sat on the stony beach in Greystones, marvelling at the two little ones splashing about in their wetsuits to protect them from the icy conditions of the Irish Sea, watching a group of teenagers foolishly jump off the pier into the murky sea below, in what must have resulted in their togs reefed up their arses and a five second loss of life upon hitting the freezing water…

I pondered life.

My Dad was to my right. The teenagey daughter to my left. I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular in that moment and for once my worries were at bay. I nonchalantly rested my head on Dad’s shoulder, inhaling the moment, briefly feeling like a kid, calming surveying the ocean and its activities with my father and relishing these days that will someday come to an end. I glanced at the teenagey one and she smiled at me, a rare pure smile. She reached towards me to tenderly put her hand on my face but instead plucked a long dark hair from my chin.

Sweetest Jesus!!!

I flinched. She laughed.

‘Sorry mum it was right there blowing in the wind.’

As I was swiftly catapulted back to the stark reality that I am in fact the hairy chinned mother and not the child, it struck me how things change. How life continues to plummet forwards taking us unwittingly through each phase. I flashbacked to reaching over and plucking a ‘stray grey’ from Dad’s ear giggling at the state of him and his old man hairy lobes, except now it was me being plucked like a middle aged chicken. And in that moment three thoughts entered my probably hairy brain,

1. I must remember to audition for the stage production of ‘The Greatest Showman’ as the bearded lady.

2. Holy shit was I one of those women that walks about oblivious to the fact that they are sporting a Magnum PI moustache and I will endeavour to buy a magnifying mirror with a handy light feature, the next time they come into Aldi, and carefully examine said chin and upper lip.

3. Time was moving on.

My Dad carries about with him a plethora of morto Dad jokes. One of the classics was to hilariously declare, when we were out and about with him as teenagers, ‘Gosh, people will think you’re my girlfriend.’ This was always met with the desired squeals of disgust that he was aiming for and he would chuckle away to himself. He has continued this wisecrack for much of our adult lives, so much so that as I climbed into the passenger seat on our journey home from Greystones, he began, ‘You know, people will think…

‘You know Dad, it pains me to say that the possibility of people thinking I’m your girlfriend gets a little bit more real with each passing year!’

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The gap of years is closing fast and as they saunter towards old age, I am being hurtled faster and faster towards middle age, with a great big hairy chin, a niggling knee, shifting teeth that may at some stage require Invisalign intervention, and a face that requires copious serums and lotions to keep the life crinkles away. But it’s not really the physical changes that bother me, I am after all a master of disguise, with my SoSu fake lashes and skinnyfying mirror, but it is the more the fact that someday I will blink and I’ll be seventy and my daughter will be having her chin plucked on a beach somewhere by her daughter. (Hah!)

Life is just so bloody busy and we are all frantically rushing towards the next phase. We wait all week for Friday, all year for summer, all our lives for happiness.

I remember being in such a rush to move out of home. The S.O and I got the keys to our first home, three days before our wedding and both still living at home and with nothing much to pack but our clothes and few belongings, we decided to move that very moment. I bustled about all day packing up my red Mini, wondering if they would notice if I stole some furniture, while The Mothership walked about for the whole day with her nose stuck in the air, refusing to engage.

‘Menopause’, I thought and carried on loading the Mini with my fashions, make up and my prized Wrinkles dog teddy that she had cleverly used for years to hide her diamond rings in his talking head when we were away. As the day wore on and the last load was in the car, she unleashed a guttural sob, making me realise it wasn’t in fact the menopause, it was that her fourth and final ‘cling on’ was leaving forever. I was so busy rushing towards my future that I didn’t notice, I was closing her door to my past. Slamming it in her face. I had imagined that at her stage in life she would be delighted to be rid of me. She was 55 years old, had raised and educated four kids, revolved her life around us for the last thirty years and THAT WAS IT…

SEE YA, GOOD LUCK!

Yes life moves on. Every morning we get up and go through the motions. We take the good bits from each day and plough through the hard. Every night we go to bed, vow to live better tomorrow, eat better, stay calm, have fun, and laugh more. With each week that goes by we try to stay on top of what we have to do, whether it’s work, kids, appointments. We promise to go to the gym more, not drink as much, spend as much, not worry as much. Each month is a fresh start to again eat better, exercise more, live better, love more. Each year promises to be better than the last. Each decade will be the best one yet. You get the idea…

and then sometimes you just think, what the F*** is this all about?

We stumble through life wanting the biggest house, the best car, the best job, the best holiday, the best for our kids. By the time one phase of our lives is over we are hurtling faster into the next phase, taking what we learnt from the last (bog all) and trying to use our experiences to do better.

By the time one season’s fashions are tucked inside the wardrobe, then the weather changes. Suddenly skinny jeans are out and we are supposed to be wearing boyfriend jeans. Blazers are a no-no and it’s all about aviator jackets. Stilettos are replaced by cone heels? Aggghhhhhh.

Once you have mastered living a low fat diet, we discover this is all wrong and we are supposed to be doing no carbs, high protein, moderate fat.

Cardio was key, now it’s weights and weights don’t make you bulky they make you lean and abs are built in the kitchen but no one gave me the recipe and running is bad for you and spinning makes you fat and…

We used to drink vodka, now it’s gin and god help you if you don’t like gin because every party has a gin bar and a glass the size of a fishbowl and pepper and cucumber in there, in a drink no less!

Your runners used to be for the gym and now they are for formal wear.

Once you have managed to have the entire house and every stick of furniture painted grey, that’s deemed passé and all white is back in.

And everyone has become so darned PC! We can’t talk about anything anymore. All the fun words are out of bounds, you can’t say that, do that, feel that. Everyone suffers from anxiety, even dogs, and is it any wonder, we are all gone frickin’ bat shit crazy. GOOD GOD it’s fast. It’s all so fast that if we don’t stop and take stock we are going to miss the entire thing. We are going to get to the end of it all and say…

‘take me Jesus, I’m exhausted’.

And everyone tries to hide the fact they can’t cope and let on that ‘everything is just marvellous Mary.’ We are judged for everything. We help too much, we don’t help enough. We are too old, too young. Too mouthy, too quiet. Too open, too closed. Too rich, too poor. We work too hard. We don’t work at all.

We are on a hamster wheel that we can’t get off. We try to make it go faster and faster to make the journey quicker and easier or just to keep up. But instead we should be slowing it down to a pace we can manage, a pace that lets us take in the view. Because everything outside that wheel is still. Nothing is moving but us. We are the knobs making the wheel turn and turn.

I have fond memories of Dad, who was a builder (master craftsman as he liked to call himself) coming home from work every evening when we were kids. He was dusty and smelled of cement. He would shower, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed, repeat. Work, shower, dinner, TV, bed, repeat. And it seemed so thankless to me back then, so mundane. He was trapped in those busy years, paying for us to swan about. I never asked how or why he did it? Never questioned how much we cost? Well I bloody do now as I find myself in the throes of it. Each kid costs a small fortune. But you just do it. You just get on with it. Is it any wonder we forget to stop every so often to take in life?

Because this is it. This is life. It’s a ship that keeps on sailing. But we so easily forget that we are the Captain of that ship and while we can’t stop it, we can steer it.

I remember someone suggesting to write down all the funny things the kids say, so in years to come we could look back and laugh. I meant to do it. I really did but I was busy. And I have to admit that sometimes I throw their messy pictures in the bin to save me walking into the wardrobe to quickly pop them into the memory box because I want everything all tidy, NOW. Sometimes I hide in the bathroom for some peace, I’m sure they think I have a terrible dose of IBS, but someday I’ll open the door and there’ll be no one there telling me that their brother pinched them or that their sister is chewing with her mouth open to annoy them.

It’s all going so fast.

The teenagey one is now taller than me so I’m no longer able to walk around with her in my arms. But try as I might, I cannot remember the last time I picked her up. Did I know that would be the last time I would try to lift her? Did I nearly break my back? Did I say ‘oh I can’t lift you anymore you are getting so grown up’? It just happened and I’ve forgotten when.

And I wonder when my son will stop coming in with cuts on his legs and grubby hands.

And when the little one will stop running around the house butt naked and care free.

When they don’t need me to wash their hair.

When they don’t need me five times a year to rub their sun cream on.

The teen one goes to Irish college with the school next week. I sincerely hope times have changed since I went myself as I’m sure when I went I was at least twenty-nine. She also wants to start getting the bus by herself. The BUS!! ‘Don’t be ridiculous you are only three and a half.’

It must have been how The Mothership felt when she waved me off the day I left home…thinking what the hell was that all for? Thanks for the last twenty five years you ungrateful little so and so.

But I came back…I came back the very next day. I came back most days for the next ten years and parked myself with my babies in her kitchen and hung out long enough for her to feed me and my offspring, so I could still witness my dad come home from work, dusty and tired, smelling of glorious cement not realising all the while time was moving on.

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The Mothership now has the best social life and is far busier than I am, but in the fun way and I’m the bloody eejit blundering my way through life. I’m the one who’s wondering what the hell it’s all about. She sends me pictures of her and her buddies in Spain drinking gin. My Dad is seventy three and is one of the most youthful people I know. My friend calls him MacGyver. He rides a motorbike, drives boats, was a deep sea diver, has built us homes, fixes everything that breaks, even me sometimes. He’s a badass Grandad and enjoys telling his own kids how much of a mess they are making with everything, but it comes straight from the heart. I know Dad worries more about us now then he did when we were kids and I know he hates growing old and fears when he is no longer around to fix our breaks. But we’ll be ok. He has instilled his badassness in us and his Grandkids. We will remain forever young at heart, just like him.

Time waits for no man. Time goes on. But this our time and we need to seize it and live it and remember that in each mundane day there’s got to be something lovely.

Recognise it. Hold it. Embrace it.

On Saturday, I sat on a beach with my dad and kids and had my chin plucked.

On Sunday, I sat in the sunshine and watched the boy child flip on the trampoline and shouted for him not to break his neck.

On Sunday evening, the love of my life took me out and told me I looked beautiful and get better with age. (Cataracts)

On Monday I read a really great book.

On Tuesday I sat with my laptop and thought about my parents and their lives.

Today I flicked through my phone and look at my life through photos and realise that it’s ok to capture the best bits.

We can let the mundane get us. We can let negativity creep in. Or we can be positive and grateful. For love, for health, for laughter, for rare sunshine. The future is coming. I’m terrified of my folks getting older. I’m terrified of losing them. I’m terrified of waking up one day and my kids being gone. But that’s not happening today. Today everything is just fine. Today I am just sitting here writing about it all. Time waits for no man. So just be. Sometimes just be. Face your fear of the future and shout…

‘By the hair on my chinny chin chin, I will not let you in.’

This blog is dedicated to John Noel Small, the fixer of breaks. Who taught us to work hard, play hard, love hard and while sometimes he annoys the living shite out of me and he is most definitely not always right, he will always be. My Father, The Hero.

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At 5.30am on a Monday morning, three weeks ago, I awoke in active labour. The contractions were approximately four minutes apart and were rapidly increasing in severity. I turned towards the S.O, shook his shoulder gently (nearly dislocated it) and whispered (the whole village heard)…

‘ It’s time.’

He turned towards me wide eyed, hair on end (obviously after a hot date with the hairy fairy) and lovingly said,

‘What the f*** are you talking about?’

Shaking myself back to reality, I concluded that I am of course not expecting a baby, but something was most definitely amiss. I wracked my brain through the rollerdex of items I had consumed the day before, no, nothing unusual in there. Contemplated that the crippling pains may have been due to returning to school following a two week blissful (never jaysus stopped raining, everyone is driving me nuts) midterm break, nope, the return to school was a wonderful gift. But I was without a doubt experiencing contractions that felt as if I was about to deliver something much larger than a baby.

Nonplussed and determined to get the kids to school at whatever cost, I got up and showered, but no sooner did I have my legs inside my skinny jeans (ever so slightly tighter after consummation of multiple chocolate eggs), I commenced vomiting and I did not stop for many, many, many hours.

The S.O jumped into action and ensured safe deposit of kids to school, while I set about a morning that involved lying on the bathroom floor, enduring horrific internal pains and trying to remember if I was or wasn’t able to hop on one foot did that or did that not mean that I had appendicitis? By 11am and Google doc having provided with as inconclusive diagnosis, (it may be appendicitis, it may be severe wind, it may be gastro, it may be cysts wrapped around my ovaries, it may be fatal…), The Mothership arrived, hero like, after her bi-weekly aquafit and brandishing twelve litres of Lucozade Sport, to hydrate and save me.

She took one look at me, grabbed some clothes out of Wardrobe B, dressed me, (not forgetting to mention that the last time she did this I was maybe three) and bundled me into the car where she insisted I visit the doctor. I tried to kick her away but my limbs were weak and though she is but tiny, she is fierce. Resistance was futile. She had selected the following items for me to wear.

Upon reaching the surgery and being carried across the road by Supergran, I sat with my head between my knees, hair falling over my face, in an effort to prevent myself from fainting and to try and conceal my identity. Again this was futile. The Mothership would be a useless ally in The Witness Protection Programme as she just cannot help herself from talking to everyone!

And while I tried to remain anonymous, well as anonymous as you can while continually retching into a towel in a public waiting room, she managed to have two full blown conversations over my head. I managed to raise my head for a moment to whisper…

‘please stop talking to everyone mum, you are drawing attention to me.’

But I think even I can admit that the clearly contagious green person, announcing FASHION EMERGENCY and violently retching and writhing with pain was probably doing this all by herself and I concluded in that moment I would rather have been publicly giving birth than having everyone witness my pregnancy free labour.

The wonderful doc, also shocked by my pallor, said the words that frighten me most.. ‘off to A&E’. I tried to argue with her but she is terribly convincing and so I was shoved into the back seat of The Motherships Fiat 500, where I was instructed to lie down and shut up until we got to the hospital.

The Mothership and her makeshift teeny ambulance sped off down the road.

How I arrived in the hospital without a head injury, I have no idea as The Mothership (how can I say this politely) is bloody heavy on the brake and every time she pressed I was nearly catapulted off the 2” deep seat. With my foot wedged under the passenger seat to keep me in place and recognising that we were almost there when we hit the 500 speed bumps on Nutley Road, we jerked up outside the Hospital and I was transferred inside by a lovely porter. God help him. I was the colour of snot.

With little time to catch my breath, as I knew what was about to ensue (I have an irrational fear of needles, like pathetic), the nurse came at with her noisy trolley full of sharp objects and containers. My legs gave way, I started to blub like a baby and I reached my weak little paw towards my Mammy and she said exactly what I needed to hear in that moment…

‘Where is Judy in the Middle now, she is much braver than you?’

Oh…wasn’t expecting that!

I now had no choice but to the let the nurse capture the blood from my sad little veins and hook me up to a drip which actually pretty much instantaneously stopped my violent vomits and eased my pain. Hoorah for nurses! As some strength returned and I awaited my diagnosis I got back on my phone to obtain as much sympathy from anyone I could find. I managed to convince my friends that it was in fact NOT just wind and that I had NOT being delivering just a giant fart and it was actually a VERY SERIOUS helping of Gastroenteritis with a large dollop of hypochondria.

Nine hours, two drips and the silver lining of perhaps a few pounds of weight loss tucked inside my green cardigan I returned home to recover in bed. What an experience! I could talk for hours about all the marvellous people that traipse thought the Emergency Department. I could tell you all about the fabulous man with the shoulder to elbow oozing and clearly infected tattoo but I shan’t. Nor will I bother to reveal that my now Middle aged metabolism resulted in a zero pound weight loss. But I will say that what became truly apparent is that I am complete and utter WUSS. I have a friend (ex-nurse) who is tougher than nails. She can break her shoulder skiing and continue down the slopes, can suffer a vomiting bug and go about her daily business but not me…

I turn to mush.

I am a wimp, a sissy, a baby, a scaredy cat and it got me thinking, perhaps the image I am sharing of myself does not match who I actually am? Perhaps I am a keyboard warrior? Perhaps I am full of shit and don’t even live by the advice I throw out willie-nillie? Perhaps The Mothership is totally right and Judy in the Middle is far braver than I am and well…

it bothered me.

It bothered me because I don’t want anyone to have a false perception of me. I believe one of my greatest assets is honesty and the need I have to stay true to myself and to not put forward an image of these bloggers who are full of crap. (Well I am probably a small bit full of shit but I recognise it and that counts, right?!) We all know that most things we see online are bullshit, most of the images we throw up are of the great times and from the start I always wanted to make sure I didn’t do this.

Why?

Because life is hard enough without having another mindless ‘influencer’ showing you how frickin’ great their life is when you have just gone to the gym with your trousers on back to front and last night’s make up on and you maybe didn’t get to have a shower yesterday because the kids had another bloody project and we all know that no kid actually does their project themselves and…you get the idea.

I think there are two types of people in the world. Those that have no confidence but have great big balls and those that have oodles of confidence and no balls. I have no balls.

A nd while I am happy to be a lady with no balls…

I would like to perhaps grow a small set that won’t interfere with my fashions but would ensure that I am marginally braver because I’m a closet coward. So in the interest of honesty I took on the task of interviewing myself with some questions that people have sent me… so here it is Jimmy Rabitte style.

Why did you start oversharing?

I started the Blog because I decided that in the year I turn 40 (not ‘til October, I am still very much in my thirties), and after 13 years of raising kids and having various careers, none of which really suited me, that it was time I had a piece of the pie. It was time to do something that I loved and something that brings me joy and something that I am good at. That is writing.

So I started to tell my story. Everyone has one and mine is no greater than yours. Like the plumber with the thick North London accent, who I met today in my friend’s house, who told me how he ended up in Ireland and how he fell in love with a Line Dancing lovely called Gladys. He was just telling me facts, but I heard a love story in its truest form, told from the heart. I saw the look and quiet smile that crossed his face when he got to the part about seeing her and ensuring their introduction.

I bet if you told me your story, I could make it sound better than it actually is and put a funny slant on it. A friend once told me that I have the ‘eye of an eagle’ and as a result never miss a trick. I’m afraid it’s true and it’s probably what’s made me a bit of a story teller. I never miss a sideward glance or that ‘upey downy’ stare that women give each other when they are trying to quickly take in what the other person is wearing or the nudge a wife gives a husband to make him shut the hell up before he asks the not pregnant lady when she is due, or the nervous laugh someone gives when their kid is shouting ‘VAGINAS’ in Supervalu. I see it all and it makes me smile. I also regularly partake in putting my foot in it so I also create a lot of tales from the crypt and I see life in colour, great big bright dollops of colour.

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Well if you are such a bleedin’ great scribbler why did you start sharing duck face pictures of yourself?

I think people are naturally nosy and love to take peek into other people’s lives and since I’m open as a book it seemed an obvious progression. I’m obsessed with fashion, love getting dressed up, putting things together and just in case the writing part didn’t take off, I wanted something to fall back on. I’ve also seen other bloggers get sent loads of free things and I was hoping that might happen to me. But alas no. So far I have received absolutely nothing! So to the person who wants to know if I buy all my clothes myself? Yes! This is the reason why I drive an awful banger of a car and have far less holidays than other people my age.

Why the yellow chair?

I have this architect friend who is obviously really artsy. She has no tattoos or even cartilage piercings so she doesn’t actually look artsy but I can assure you she is and actually incredibly supportive (aside from when she slags me for the duck face photos). She told me that no one could see my fashions as I was standing in front of the icky brown door. Taking on board her constructive criticism, I dragged the mirror to a different location but unfortunately there was another icky brown door behind me so I stuck the yellow chair there to break it up. It seemed to work.

I also take a lot of abuse mostly from Sister 2 about my mirror. She is convinced that it’s a ‘thinning’ mirror and that I’m not actually this size. Sister 1 recently started to partake in this slinging match. I then walked into my room to find them both standing in front of the yellow chair and looking into the mirror. Sister 1 is now on my side while Sister 2 continues her tirade. Perhaps Sister 1 just liked the way she looked in my mirror! I promise it’s not a skinnyfying mirror. I bought it many moon ago in Arnotts and I don’t think they were that ahead of themselves. I will leave you with this…I know my angles.

Do you stand in front of the yellow chair all day?

No. I now have the picture taking down to a fine art. I usually take the pictures before we are going out somewhere and while I actually look clean. Usually, either The SO or the entire family are waiting in the hall screaming at me and I am screaming back. ‘AM FAMOUS BLOGGER SHUT THE F*** UP!’ I have to stand a bit back from the yellow chair as the arms are a bit stained as Wilbur the dog is prone to curling up on it while I am on the school run. See, perceptions. You all thought my chair was perfect. Just like me, the chair is not always what it seems. (So so deep, perhaps I should return and study psychology).

Lately, I do put more effort into my appearance but to me this is like a kid dressing up at Halloween and is rarely a trial and I am very happy to report that since I started blogging I am actually making fewer purchases and trying to be creative with what I have. (Ok February was not a good month, but I have been much cheaper in both March and April!)

You are clearly not famous, yet, if ever (harsh) but what is your favourite part of blogging?

Well, it’s not the free things because there are none and it’s not all the launches I don’t get invited to, so I would have to say it is discovering that there are actually loads of people that enjoy reading it and that has been one of the greatest (for free) feelings of my life thus far. I’ve had messages from people saying that I have inspired them to buy various items of clothing, that their bank balance is suffering and their partners are really pissed off with them but that they have never felt happier in their utility jacket. I’ve also had messages about my articles to say that they are relatable, honest and that I have made people laugh and even more special, I have managed to make people cry without even being mean to them!

So in a nutshell, it’s the people I have encountered and the people I have reconnected with. It’s been darn special.

Does it require a lot of confidence to be so open with a bunch of strangers?

No. Nothing I share is above and beyond what I would tell someone in a conversation. Someone once pointed out that by oversharing I may be subjecting myself to ridicule. Whatever! If someone wants to ridicule me than I think that says more about them. I have a self-deprecating sense of humour which I’ve found to be a great tool in awkward situations. I believe being able to make people laugh is a great gift and I enjoy using my own experiences to do that. I also imagine myself talking to my friends when I’m writing. They are a good cross section of society so if I can reach them than perhaps I can reach further.

It seems to come easily to you…is it like that in your head or does it take days to put together? – (This is a question from Dr. Sue and she knows things!)

It does come easily enough but a lot of work goes into each blog after it is written, so I suppose what you all see if maybe a third draft. I wanted to make writing part of my routine so that when I actually get around to writing the book that I know how much I can churn out each week. The hardest bit is making my articles shorter. I often find myself deleting huge chunks that I feel are relevant but I’ve had a lot of comments about my blogs being too long so I’m trying not to anger my few fans! In a way I wish I had started writing ten years ago. The truth is, I didn’t really know I could even write. But I think that life has now deposited me into a place where I am ready.

Has blogging been helpful finding out who your people are?

Sadly yes. I always knew that complete and utter shit for brains existed. I mean we all know that and I’ve been lucky to have only encountered a few of them but I feel the blog has made certain people wary of me. Almost as if they are afraid to say something to me in case I write about it or in case I call out a poor outfit choice! I actually find it much more fun to take the piss out myself for your amusement so I’m not going to go there, ever. I’ve also had a fair few people just ignore it. This is a strange one to me as it like someone walking into your house in a red pleather catsuit with yellow knee high boots and being like…‘What?’

Perhaps it has also made me warier of people as I am ever so slightly afraid of criticism. I live in a village so it’s been a bit tricky to avoid it and I’m sure loads of people think I am a total dipshit. That’s ok. I never really need to fear what people think of me as I’ve probably already thought it about myself. I’ve refocused and become a little more insular with my core friends, who are so supportive and it’s been great. My family have been great too. Some of the stories / memories have been really cathartic for us as a family. It’s our story alone and I’m happy that they like being part of it.

What have you learnt about yourself?

So much. It has been really liberating writing all about my recent experiences, memories and feelings. I’m a lot deeper than I thought. I’ve also learnt that I’m really ambitious and ridiculously hard on myself. And while I can be a BIG FAT WUSS I’ve learnt I can also be strong and determined when I need to be. I find writing the odd offering of substance has given me more of a licence to faff about in front of the yellow chair and has provided proof that we can many different people rolled into one!

What have you learnt about others?

People are all kinds of crazy. But so am I.

People read very different things into the articles that I write. They put their own slant on it and relate it back to themselves and it sometimes surprises me what they come up with. I suppose just because I write it a certain way doesn’t mean it is always read that way. That’s the beauty of words but it also explains why so many disagreements start via texts interpreted arseways. People always surprise me, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. But all in all, I love people. I am a people! I don’t want to let the few negative souls I have encountered to define me, you know I think you only really need a one or two people in your life that think you are awesome and I’ve started to put time into those that put time into me. Sister 1 told me that. It is the wisest thing she has ever said!

What’s your favourite physical and personality attribute about yourself?

Well I have quite a stretchy face which enables me to be very expressive! I do a super Rat Face, which I learnt from Sister 2 and my eldest daughter can also do it. It’s now a family trait.

Personality wise, it’s my honesty and I’m learning to love my over sensitivity, it means I care!

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Do you ever wear a tracksuit?

No. Does stylish active wear when not being active count?

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What would you like to happen with the blog?

I’d like to get sent some free clothes first and foremost! Like anything. A poncho made from the fur of the Alpaca, a pair of mohair trousers…I will draw the line at a suit made of skin but I’m open to a lot.

I’d like to do Dr. Judy’s Style Labs but I don’t think I’m quite ready for that, unless someone would like to sponsor me…but I think it will come. I want to have a year of doing what I’m doing under my belt to decide what happens next.

I’d also like to make a small bit of money from the blog. I don’t want to be greedy but a little amount would someday be pleasant.

And I’d like to have a book published (or 20).

What are you most scared of?

Well every week when I put out a blog I instantly think, oh crap what if I run out of things to say. I’m also terrified of failure, although I’ve encountered it many times, but deeper still I am afraid of being in a good place. Traditionally whenever things are going well, someone or something comes out of left field to take me out. But I know every knock makes me stronger and every negativity drives me to succeed.

Do you believe all the rubbish you write?

Yes I do. I don’t always live by it of course but I am trying. I suppose when the BIG 40 finally happens in October and I realise that the world is not going to implode and I still have maybe another 40 years of living ahead I will relax a little. I had something to prove to myself and I went for it. I’m glad I did. If nothing ever happens with it, I will have memories and stories to hand down to my children.

What advice would you give someone about starting a blog or indeed any venture?

Feel the fear and do it anyway…people are going to think what they think and you can’t ever stop that. But believe in yourself and try and be brave.

And with life?

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Just live. In the words of Eminem who inspired this entire piece…

‘Lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go, You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime…’

This blog is dedicated to my person – Mal, who thinks the sun shines out of my…

The moment of impact – The lights came from nowhere and then hit. Shards of light mixed with rain flew from his eyes, scattering outwards, moments of his lifetime and theirs. Tears, laughter, sadness, bliss, all at once shimmering upwards like a mirror shattering and then…nothing.

***

Many years ago during a prosecco fuelled, side splittingly amusing night out with friends we fell upon a conversation about dogs and the unarguable benefits of dog ownership. At this stage I was in the positive throes of ‘The Buster Years’ and was deeply besotted with what we had lovingly titled our first born; a full of life, constantly getting me into trouble Boxer puppy called Mister Buster.

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My friend and I who shared similar views, took on the task of convincing her then boyfriend (now loving husband), who was not an admirer of the canine population, that a dog is both a welcome and almost vital addition to any household. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he hated dogs, as this is akin to saying you hate babies and at this stage in their relationship, may have proved to be an irreversible faux pas.

Unconvinced and clearly not succumbing to our passion filled rants, there was little else I could do but deliver the money shot.

‘Well,’ I smugly said, my face twitching with the excitement of my impending victory, ‘you can’t argue with the fact that there is a long history of close relations, loyalty and companionship with humans that has resulted in the common place phrase; Man’s Best Friend!’ (Ok so this is a far cry from the actual delivery of my message but the message was in there none the less.)

Cooler than a dip in the Irish Sea in December he retorted…

‘Man is man’s best friend.’

Oh…

Wasn’t expecting that.

Pause of confusion.

For various reasons including the fact that he is infinitely more intelligent than me (proven at state examination level), massively taller than me and I was starting to get what could have become an irreversible case of repetitive neck strain, has hands that are slightly larger than normal and at any minute could have clapped his hand over my mouth to shut me up, thus blocking all my airways while simultaneously blocking my line of vision and I may have needed to pee…

I desisted.

But it is conversation that has often made me giggle over the years while considering my own adoration of the canine population and…

an argument that I would now like to revisit.

Show me any person who is always happy to see you.

Show me any person that will always unconditionally love and provide you with comfort.

Show me a better running buddy, one who always wants to go and will never ring in sick.

Show me a person who instinctively knows when you are sick or are having a hard time and who will just sit beside you; a silent devoted companion.

Show me any person that just plain loves to be alive.

Show me any person, who waits all day at the door for you to come home and is never annoyed with you for being late, only grateful that you showed up.

Show me a person who will never judge you for your culinary skills and would happily eat your undercooked chicken.

Show me a person who farts openly and unashamedly and puts their tuna breathe in your face with more confidence than Madonna.

Show me any person…seriously I could do this all day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who says they prefer the company of dogs to people, there is nothing like people (the right ones mind you), except when everyone is annoying me and I can chat away to Wilbur instead (Buster’s successor). And though he never responds, he looks at me as if he understands and for me it is enough. Although I often wonder will he someday turn to me and say…

‘Jesus Christ, would you ever shut the f*** up!’

I grew up with dogs, West Highand Terriers, fabulous little precarious things, but it wasn’t until Buster tumbled into my chaotic life in my mid-twenties that I learnt the real value of the canine friend. I can safely say after encountering many, many dogs over the years, that all dogs are not created equal, some have an extra sprinkling of special and Buster was one of these.

‘The Buster Years’ were the most remarkable years of my life, ones that I’ll remember with fondness forever more and although Buster himself was only one small part of these times, he will remain in my heart until the day I die. While I navigated every curve in the road, every hardship, every challenge, he was my calm even though he was absolutely NUTS!

He destroyed the house, consumed more valuables than is healthy and consistently ran off on me. I remember one day in particular in the early days of motherhood; having a ‘good day’ and managing to get dressed, I decided to take my infant daughter and Buster for a walk in the park. I packed us all into the car and off we went and enjoyed a fabulous jaunt, her in the buggy and him off the lead, bounding up to people for a play, me lifting my hand every so often and mouthing, ‘sorry’ to the passers-by, as he attempted to include them in his fun.

Fun over we headed back to the car, where we embarked on another ‘game’ that lasted well over an hour, the rules were simple.

I would try to catch him – he would run away.

I would try to catch him, he would lie down, I would slowly creep over pretending to look at a tree – he would ran away.

I would pretend to get into the car, he would come over, I would try to catch him – he would run away.

I would get into the car, drive off, he would run after me, I would stop the car, get out. I would try to catch him – he would run away.

I would sit in the boot of the car, pretend to be eating something. He would come over. I would try to catch him – he would run away.

I would run really fast towards him, pretending that I had a ball. I would try to catch him – he would run away.

After an hour of entertainment and at a total loss as to how I was going the get the little fecker into the car. I was forced to call my ICE. I’m not sure you’ve met him yet, but I would like to introduce you to The Brothership. The Brothership is the poor unfortunate brother to Sister 1, Sister 2 and Sister 3. Like the A-Team he was forced into a life he did not choose. The Brothership is the fixer of his sister’s various issues and that day he was about to be invited as player three in this futile game.

After taking my call (idiot) and me using the fact that the baby was crying as my hook, he arrived, hero like in his jeep, arm out the window, cool as ICE. He pulled up, jumped out nonchalantly, reached his one tanned arm down indifferently, grabbed Buster by the collar, gave me ‘that look’ and said…

‘Seriously?!’

Yes…Buster was Buster. But he was mine and I loved him and like I said, he was my calm. If you call calm being dragged along at high speeds to reach the beach, where I would release the lead and watch him sprint like he’d robbed a bank. If you call calm, having more arguments with assholes who just didn’t understand him. But with the challenges came joy and the addition of Buster meant many things from security at home, a valid reason to talk to myself and a presence in the lonely days of young motherhood.

For whatever grief he gave me, he gave me back love in spadefuls.

It is 14 years ago today that he was delivered onto my door step in a basket. He was the best and most cherished gift that I have ever received and one that was taken away a little before his time on a December night, four years ago. Although I did know in my heart that his time was approaching. As is always the case with hindsight, I suppose I took him for granted in the latter years. I suppose with the business of three kids and work and life that Buster took a backseat. Maybe he was ok with this? After all in the months before he died he had become more insular, a little withdrawn and would often head into another room alone for some peace. And even though I kept the gate closed, he had discovered a secret escape route and had started to wander a little. (This was revealed after he had habitually started to trot across the road to take a dump in our friend’s garden. I’ll never forgot the laughs when they caught him and said for weeks they had been picking up what had appeared to be a different poo from their own dog’s, the consistency was just off!!!)

The night in question was dark and wet, as is always the case in these matters and I was busy making a substandard chicken dipper meal for the kids as I was heading out with the girls that night. It was an evening more rushed than usual. The kids had been collected from their various activities and I drove in the gate, rushed into the house and set about the stages to get me back out the door as fast as I could and into the pub – drink in hand. I let Buster out, put dinner on the table, made sure everyone was ok rushed down to my room ready to shower and the phone rang.

And my heart stopped beating.

‘Do you own a boxer?’

‘Yes…’

‘I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident. Can you come down?’

‘Buster…oh my god is he ok?’

‘I’m really sorry. He was in a bad way. We did all we could. He didn’t make it.’

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

On autopilot I rang The SO. He was over the other side of the city so I called in the troops who quickly arrived – my dad, my mum, sister 1 and sister 2 all came. They knew what this would mean. Dad and I made the two minute journey to the vet and with a body akin to someone having removed all my bones, I was brought into the room where my Buster, my puppy, my heart, lay on a steel table with a blanket over him. His eyes were no longer his own and as I collapsed on top of him, with tears as big as raindrops falling onto his still body, a little piece of me was lost forever.

The Buster Years were no more.

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The aftermath of Buster dying was sadder than ‘Marley and Me’ with a burial akin to a state funeral. I know to some people who are not dog lovers, or to those who have suffered real loss that this may seem ridiculous and I would never compare the loss of an animal to the loss of a friend or a family member. But it was my first taste of loss. My first taste of the hollow feeling that enters your heart. The numbness that takes over your limbs, the oxygen that doesn’t quite reach your lungs. It is at first a physical pain, which quickly changes to an emotional pain that quickly moves to a confused state, an angry state, a questioning state. I am lucky to say that perhaps Buster dying was so far the greatest loss in my own life. I know there will be more ahead and I dread it as I know that the next time I face it, it will come to me with a force that I’m not sure I will be able to manage.

After Buster died. It took me a long time to stop picturing his final moments. If I had closed the gate, if I hadn’t been in a fuss, if I had paid more attention, if… I replayed it over and over in my head. I pictured the rain, the dark night, the lights, the car, the driver that had left him there; too busy, too rushed to care and the other kind man that had stopped and gently put him in his car to rush him to the vet, the pain

… the moment of impact.

A few weeks later, when life had resumed and I had received as much sympathy as I was going to for a canine bereavement; I went for a run and the strangest thing happened. I thought I saw him, I felt him with me and call me crazy but I knew he had come to say goodbye. Immediately afterwards, I came home, sat down and wrote this which I hope sums it up.

The Final Race

This morning on my run

I thought I saw your face,

You ran in the fields beside me

Keeping at my pace

You bounded up ahead

Stood proud upon the hill,

The sun shone down upon you

Like a golden river spill

As I reached the end

Where the road bends to the right,

You quickly flew ahead

Disappearing out of sight

But there you were again

That so familiar face,

Running right beside me

In a last amazing race

Then all at once you stopped

Turned to look around,

Something called to you

Some hypnotic sound

I paused there to watch

As you turned and ran away,

I tried to call you back

Urge you here to stay

Thank you for your visit

I had longed to see your face

If only for a minute

For this last amazing race

I hope he knows he’s lucky

To have a dog like you,

May he keep you safe forever

And love you as I do.

***

We swore we would never get another dog. Too much hassle, too much pain; until a very beautiful lady one day innocently mentioned to me that the stables near us had a litter of puppies.

‘What breed?’ I enquired.

‘Boxers.’

Ah balls. Here we go again.

So like everything else in my life I plunged straight back in, feet first, led by my heart, thinking I would never love another dog as much as Buster, in the same way you think you’ll never love a second child as much, but you do. You just do. Same but different. And the Wilbur years ticked into action.

So now to the person who told me that Man is man’s best friend.

Nah, I’m not buying it. I see a dog in your future. I see you with your giant hand placed on the head of something equally intelligent. While the Boxer suits me very well, I see you with a Retriever. A terribly faithful one who appreciates your even temperament. I bet your dog is super well behaved and although you are the reluctant dog owner and have tried to resist the playful affection, this dog with super powers will see right through you. He will break you.

And someday when he passes onto what they refer to as the ‘rainbow bridge’, you won’t wail like i did, but you probably won’t get another dog, as let’s face it, no dog could ever replace the one that finally became…

Man’s best friend.

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For Buster.

To DQ, I see you your argument and I raise you this memoir!

To everyone else with a dog and especially to the more reluctant dog owner…

what you put into them you will get back, just like people!

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There is only one relationship more complex than that of mother and daughter, more perplexing than marriage and more frustrating than siblings. It can be scarier than your first bikini wax and more exhilarating than a rollercoaster with just as many twists.

Welcome to…

The Female Friendship.

If friendship was fashion it would be the elusive ‘perfect jeans’. The ones made of soft denim with the frays in all the right places. The fit of these jeans would never be affected by a FAT day and they would always make your bottom pert, your stomach flat and your legs appear longer. These jeans are so multi-functional that you can dance the night away in them, climb a mountain in them and if you fall over, there is enough support in them that you will never be left exposed to the elements.

Friendship should not be a Bodycon dress…

The one that highlights your lumps and bumps, makes your pant line visible and your boobs look like you are carrying a builder’s arse tucked down your front. This dress makes your legs appear shorter than a baguette because it falls at an awkward length, not to mention the fact that it slowly rides up as you are forced to walk with teeny steps. A full stride is futile due to the fact that there is no give whatsoever in this horrid material.

And under no circumstances EVER should friendship be Spanx…

that at first make everything lovely and smooth but slowly begin to smother you and make you appear sausage like in form. Before you know it, you have had to escape into the bathroom after the sorbet course to remove the offending girdle as you would rather walk about knickerless and exposed than take the restriction that they are causing. And even after you have removed them, they leave a red mark where your skin has been compressed that takes a while to fade.

Yes friendship should only be The Perfect Jeans.

I have had the same pair of jeans residing pride of place in my wardrobe for 27 years. I used to wear them every single day but lately they don’t get as much of an airing. But just as these jeans promised me, they have fitted me through every relationship, pregnancy, every bump in the road, every great time, every ‘I wish I could forget time’ and I will never ever throw them out.

Some jeans are for life, some jeans will last the test of time and some jeans are worth the investment.

I’ve also had a fair few bodycon dresses and unwisely invested in a few pairs of Spanx, all of which ended up the recycling bag. But I also have some newer investment pieces; a little black dress or two, a couple of statement blazers and a really fabulous bag that I am hoping will last just as long as those jeans.

But before I talk about that, let me tell you where I found my perfect jeans …

I have a confession to make.

I went to an all-girls, very well known, private Dublin Convent Secondary School. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but it was one of those schools that has continually through my adult life caused people to say, ‘Oh right…’, (and not always in a good way) when I reveal my Alma Mater. They will often follow it with a snide comment or two. But to them my answer is always the same…

I LOVED EVERY DARN MINUTE.

It was during these six years that I met some of the more important people in my life. Those who have stood the test of time and who have remained a steady influence and inspiration in my life.

Apparently the school I was to attend had a reputation for producing young ladies of a certain calibre. Apparently we were all tutored to flick our hair the same way and speak with marbles in our mouth. We were all hockey warriors, had long model like limbs in our petrol blue uniform, would have a team of rugby players following our every move, would probably read English at University and marry well, thus spending the rest of our days attending charity luncheons and flicking our hair together.

What a huge disappointment…

it was when I sat my ordinary overweight bottom into the bench in the Science Lab beside another ordinary girl with a mono-brow and a huge smile. As we stared into the flame of the bunsen burner and I attempted to flick my hair (think Andrew Strong circa The Commitments), we watched those private school aspirations disappear into a puff of blue smoke.

But all was not lost…

Instead what really happened behind the granite walls of that Convent was far more entertaining than we could ever have anticipated. I did receive the rounded education that was promised and I can assure my parents that the fees were not at all wasted. In fact I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly thank them for spending 30k (PUNTS, I can hear them shouting) in buying me the best friends that I could ever have asked for.

Most of us looked like blokes. The uniform was most unflattering in every way. I was crap at Hockey and every other sport, so the long limbs never came. At every sports day, a discus was thrust into my hand and someone would shout, ‘THROW’, as I launched it two feet into the air and swiftly sat back down under the tree to talk boys and how we could get them to notice us. (Eh, a comb would be a good place to start!)

The knee socks and hideous shoes gave us thick calves and the high round neck sweater gave us matronly boobs. There wasn’t a lick of tan on our mottled white legs, a highlight scattered through our dishwater coloured hair nor a scrap of lip gloss between us. The uniform smelled of wet dog if you got caught in the rain and not even the tartan lined Gabardine coat could protect you, the likes of which will never feature in Vogue, no matter how ugly fashion has become.

We relied solely on a slick of kiwi flavoured The Body Shop lip balm, a spritz of The Body Shop white musk (that would linger in the back of your throat for hours) and perhaps a spray of Impulse or a roll on deodorant to take us from drab to not quite fab.

It was the best kind of teenage freedom available. We didn’t give a shit what we looked like and in turn our personalities, our quirks and in some cases our intelligence blossomed. There was nothing to hide behind and nothing to make us individual but ourselves.

It was pure nun genius! 

I’ve heard through folklore that our year were a particularity zealous bunch and while the year splintered off into smaller groups, as is natural with a group of 100 or so girls, as an entire year we were a united group…

But it was a group of eleven girls who stole my heart forever.

We were the perfect little society. There was the incredibly intelligent ones, the artistic, the dramatic, the sporty, the all rounder, the messers, the jokers, the mother figure, the go getter, the ones who had male friends (oh I wished it to be me but alas no)…and together we just worked.

We did everything en masse and documented it in the back of our homework journals. These girls took me through every stage in school, University and beyond and while the later years of marriage and children ultimately interfered, it is still to them I go when I have tidings of joy or tales of woe.

It may surprise you that me and mono-brow girl bonded so much in science class that we still speak every single day, without fail. As sure as the sun rises, I know the phone call always comes. We always have something to say and there is always a ‘wait ‘til I tell you’, a laugh and we often feel sorry for people who don’t get to listen to our conversations because they are pure comedy value.

Together we made so many plans in Science class. Between us we were going to lose over four stone and wear Levis jeans and tight white t-shirts to Stradbrook disco. Of course we never achieved our goal (thank god, social faux pas) but often laugh about it. She is still my person, and after she plucked that brow turns out she was and still is one of the hottest things to walk the planet, (except for the time that an unfortunate smudge across her UCD photo (yes we made it to University!) gave it the appearance that she had a full Don Quixote moustache for the four years we spent there.)

Between that group of people who first drank together behind bushes, smoked together, kissed boys, (and recorded it in the homework notebook) went to discos, experienced highs, suffered losses; we have produced 29 kids; an Architect, a Brand Manager, an Advertising Exec, a Psychologist (a proper Doctor one no less), a Teacher, a Theatre Director, a Solicitor, a few Bankers and whatever the hell I’m doing at any given time.

Apart from a medic (I’m pretty sure I could lead this bit with the help of Google) I think we’ve covered off pretty much every need we could have and could happily exist for a time on a Desert Island.

We have a lifetime of history of building each other up and very little of tearing each other down. We had siblings at home to fight with and while we were definitely guiding each other, (mostly without realising it), we didn’t preach and were largely accepting that some of us were crazy bonkers and some were more sensible but we each had our place.

It was wisdom beyond our years, it was the way friendship should be, the way it is before the insecurities, the prejudices and the judgment of adult life gets in the way and it has largely remained one the most important support systems in my life.

So why is female friendship so important?

I am now going to draw on my psychological resource to reveal the answer… over to you Dr. Sue..

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‘It turns out that we are actually genetically hard wired for friendship in large part due to the oxytocin released into our bloodstream, combined with the female reproduction organs. When life becomes challenging, women seek out friendships with other women as a means of regulating stress levels.’

Ok… interesting (you big nerd) now break it down for us who didn’t fall into the ‘intelligent ones’ category please…

‘We process stress and emotion differently to men so women often find it easier to talk to their friends. Women typically do better than men when they are widowed because they have maintained and nurtured their social network better than men do.’

So there it is all the way from my Doctor of the Brain in Hong Kong.

And then my own take. Sit up!

Life can be a great big ball of shit and if we can’t talk about it and laugh about it and drink too much prosecco together and have amazingly long hilarious phone conversations that make tears roll down our faces, or dance together like crazed lunatics, or sit in silence together because there are sometimes no words, or sob crying when something utterly crap happens then what the hell is the point?

As women we will delve into the deeper issues that your husband is often pretending to listen to. I don’t really want to talk to my husband about my fluctuating hormones, this will just give him ammunition when we are having a disagreement. And all the other things that I over analyse and over think…

I want to tell my girls.

I’ve made many more friends throughout my Voyage into Middle Age. Some have been sent from heaven, some have been a wonderful moment in time and some have been a big drain. Often the newer friends we make in middle age are tagged onto other relationships that we may have, that with co-workers and parents of our kid’s friends. We are all struggling with time constraints so it is often easy and pleasant to spend time with those who are right there.

For me some of these are wonderful acquaintances and some have moved into the Friendship Zone.

I can place friendship into the flowing categories:

College / Work Friends – Hugely important at the time and vital to making the day go faster. They are often our first experience of new friendship after the stability of school. These friends can often seem exotic and new compared to the familiarity of old. Some will last the test of time but there are more ahead…

The School Gate Friends – More political than the office. You desperately try to figure out who is friends with who and how they have all become friends so fast. Have you missed another meeting? Was there a table quiz you didn’t know about? Then throw your offspring into the mix and the dynamic is insane. Personally I’ve met some wonderful friends during these years and a few I wish I hadn’t. These acquaintances and friends are vital to these years but just be careful that you realise who falls into which category. Treat the acquaintances as acquaintances and nurture the true friends. It will become obvious over time who is who!

The hobby or work out friends – I couldn’t go through friend categories without mentioning this. They are my two endorphin buddies. We have the common goal of bikini domination. Since we spend more time talking about the gym, they have unsurprisingly crossed over into the friends for life zone. Which should mean that we are hot as hell but in fact means that we started going out for dinner and drinks together as well as to the gym and since I know they can plank for a minute plus, box and do press ups and are stronger than some men, I hope they’ll alway have my back. (Must find new gym buddies who don’t speak English.)

The Surprise Friends. The ones who started off as something else. I often say to one in particular that I am so glad we didn’t meet when we were younger as we would have wracked havoc on the Universe. She has more life in her little finger than most have in their entire being. She makes me do stuff like concerts and trips and for that I love her. The other surprise friend is the one that is my polar opposite but it just works even though it shouldn’t. She has friendship qualities that I hugely admire. (Like the fact that she has often offered to cook for me, seriously some people do that!)

The ones who didn’t make it. I’ve been lucky that I have mostly met wonderful people. But my openness and honesty has meant that at times I have magnetized the odd turkey. In the past I would have agonized over the loss of a friendship and lament the shared time together but alas I don’t have time anymore so just sling your hook!

The older I get the less patient I get, I am Victor Meldrew in a midi skirt and heels. So go ahead and mess with me, judge me, try and change me, insult me, my husband or my family and like the Godfather, you are dead to me. I’ve learnt how wonderful it is to have good friends so I just don’t need the other kind. I often have to remind myself that it is quality over quantity. The principles that I should be applying to my shopping habits are far easier to apply to people. Invest in those that invest in you.

I’m not many things but I am a loyal friend.

I’ll probably take a bullet for you, if anyone hurts you I will help you plot revenge. But I‘m just too old for bad behaviour, too tired for pettiness and too cynical for bullshit. I’ll always have your back as long as you have mine but as soon as you drop the support, so will I.

Remember that the one word that always works in friendship is ‘NON’.

The best friendships are non-pressure, non-judgemental, non-complacent, nonchalant, and nonconformist and sometimes it should be pure unadulterated nonsense.

There is no need for explanations, no need for excuses and sometimes a knowing glance is enough. Sometimes things can go wrong and sometimes we can’t reverse from things that have been said or done. Sometimes we must sadly move on for a time because life is strange. Accept it, don’t try to change it.

But know that great friendship can sometimes be the greatest love story of our lives.

I know that if I achieve what I set out to achieve, I will have a group of girls behind me who knew I could do it. They will give me the standing ovation but they will be the first to bring me back down to earth again. They will accept my ‘Fanny Pack’ wearing, white boot stomping, dungaree doin’, tattoo tryin’, purple hair swishing ways but they won’t let the opportunity pass without slagging the shite out of me, just as I would do to them. Without even knowing it I’ve been drinking the expensive wine my whole life and I’m not about to start drinking plonk now.

Sometimes the girl gets the prince and sometimes if she’s very lucky she gets a Hiace van load of princesses to catch her every time she stumbles off her heels. Sometimes she gets the type of friends that when she tells them she’s done something bad, they don’t even flinch, they look her straight in the eye and say…

‘I’ll help you hide the body.’

The End.

This blog is dedicated to the class of 1996 Mount Anville. School for young men.

To my friends, (you know who you are) I love you all, as long as you love me back!