My sister saw the video

I was on the phone to Andrea and I told her she should look at the blog. I said she'd find something about her there. She said she would when she got the time.

She rang me the other evening. I answered tentatively, holding the phone a good mile from my ear, just in case.

- "So, I saw that video you put up of me."

"Hang on till I put you on speakerphone." I said, "Now, tell me again so Niamh can hear you."

- "I saw that video you put up of me. Who were all them people writin' back to ya?"

"The comments? They were people who saw the video."

- "Oh right. Well. I suppose, I suppose then, well I'll have to do another one, won't I?"

"What? What do you mean?"

- "I'll do another video. Since they liked the first one so much, like."

"Seriously?"

- "Yeah. Sure I might as well. They liked the first one. When are you down again?"


No fireworks, no drama, no indignant protests or threats of retribution. No claims of "I'll get you and your little dog too." More a case of "They like me, they really like me."

What have you lot created?

Teaching my younger sister an important lesson about the internet

We were recording the Pinkerton's video. I left the room to get something and Andrea must have recorded this on the camera while I was gone. She said nothing about it and I only found it coming home on the bus Thursday night. Niamh and I were in stitches. It's too good not to share.



She probably didn't think I'd upload it. There's your lesson right there, missy. Revenge is sweet. ;-)

Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo...

Coming out to my mother - my story

I tell this story better in person. It evolves too with each telling, words changing, inflection and intonation differing, depending on the audience. The Kilkenny accent plays an important role, as does the knowledge of the listener of my mother in "real life" - particularly how challenging a serious conversation with her can be with her constant interruptions, as well intentioned as they may be.

I've tended to tell it over dinner or a pint to someone or people it's come up in conversation with, or who out and out ask. I've hesitated about sharing it online before now, doubtful I could do the full extent of the effect and reaction justice. However, tonight I read Stephen, Russell, Scott and Ben who have all posted their coming out stories, their difficulties and challenges in sharing who they are with loved ones, so I'll give it a go and take this opportunity to tell you mine.



It's the year 1999. I'm almost 21, I've lived in Dublin now for almost two years. I'm home for the first time in a few weeks, my studies in the seminary providing a demanding schedule. Easter is next weekend and the evening before I'd been talking to my younger sister on the phone, who had told me things my mother had been telling our relatives. Andrea knows I value my privacy, knows the way things spread around our small village and, I guess, she wants to stir trouble as well, so she gives me a run through of overheard conversations and things people have said to her. She doesn't like it - I'm embarrassing her again. After a restless night of thinking and rehearsing, I took the first bus and arrived home a day early, telling my mother we needed to talk.

I'd changed a lot that year. My experiences in Kimmage were nothing but positive - I was studying in UCD, cycling out every day giving me that necessary exercise boost. The contemplative, spiritual side of my life had helped me get to know myself a lot better, to focus on my thoughts and deal with them maturely, while the social aspect of dealing with parishioners and fellow seminarians boosted my self confidence and taught me a lot about interacting with people. Teasie's little boy was growing up fast.

Dropping my bags in the hallway, I can hear the TV blasting from the kitchen. I didn't have a mobile then so had no way of telling the folks what time I'd be home. I preferred it this way almost, the thoughts of laid out tables, cups of tae and chatter about stuff we'd already discussed on the phone far from my mind. "She's been saying things about you, Darragh" Andrea had said, "She's been telling them why you don't like girls and stuff." I think I'd almost have preferred not to know.

Growing up I went to all boys schools so never had much interaction with girls. I've written about this previously, but it's worth pointing out that UCD was a huge surprise for me, it providing a bewildering amount of girls who - I couldn't really understand - seemed to like being with guys and each other. This was different.

The girls I'd encountered at home and on the school bus were bitches, pure and simple. They took every delight in tormenting each other and any one on the bus that they chose to pick on, gender irrelevant. I was a constant target, being quiet and not bothered to react. I left for Dublin with certain apprehension that they'd be the same everywhere - just out for themselves, with no concern for anyone's feelings. At least, that's how I perceived it.

I pushed open the door. My father was on the chair, watching a GAA match on the television while my mother was playing patience at the table down at the sliding door, the light being perfect for her eyesight. They didn't notice me for a second, so I said a casual "Well hello there" before sitting opposite my mother. We'd only spoken the night before so there was little catching up to do.

"Mam" I said, when the journey questions were answered, "Can we talk about something? I think we need to talk."

She looked up at me. I was expecting the look, what my sister had told me still in my head, but the sudden change in her face emphasised how important this suddenly was to her. Her eyes softened, she took off her glasses and smiled and said "Of course son, what do you want to tell me?"

"Well, look, it's important we talk about something. It'll only take a few minutes but I want to tell you it now."

It was as if I was reading next week's lotto numbers to her. She had anticipated this, I could see it in her face. The smile got wider. On the couch, my father stayed intent on the match, not a flicker of interest apparent.

"John" she said, "Come over here. Darragh wants to tell us something. Make him a cup of tea there John and come over"

"It's okay Dad", I said, "Stay where you are. I'll talk to mam."

"Are you sure Darragh?" she said. "Do you not want your father here as well? John, would you ever turn down that telly and make him a cup of tea, for feck sake. Come over here."

My mother is a formidable woman at the best of times. You'd really have to hear the accent to understand how forceful her words can be. Many's the guest in our house have had a cup of tea made for them, whether they want it or not.

"Look, it's grand", I said, "Watch your game. I'm all right for tea. I don't feel like tea, I just want to get this over with."

"Son, you know that we love you".

(If I ever do this on stage some time, I'm going to have violin music play at this point. Possibly 'O Danny Boy'.)

"You know that. We support you, we're very proud of you. You're a great son altogether, going off there to Dublin and doing what you want to do, it's great. We..."

"Yes, yes I know all that", I interrupt, as patiently as I can manage. "I just want to talk to you about this."

"Well you go on son, I'm listening. I'm here for you. JOHN! Will you turn down that telly? We're trying to talk here."

I took a deep breath. "Well, look. I've been away from here nearly two years now and I've been thinking a lot."

"You have son, and it's done you the world of good. Sure you were never happy here, it held you back. Not enough opportunities," she interrupted.

"Be that as it may", I said, "I'm enjoying the second year in UCD. I like what I'm doing and I love being in Kimmage"

"Sure aren't you doing God's work, son?" she said. "Isn't it what you want to do? You're very brave. I don't think you should be there now, but sure you're happy. And that's all we want, your father and me, you to be happy."

"Yeah, I know, but look. I want to tell you something. I want you to know this. I need you to know this."

"Go on, son, go on", she smiled, the words forming on her lips in anticipation.

"I know I never seemed interested in girls the way the other lads were when I was younger..."

"But sure weren't they all bitches to you boy? Jealous! That's what they all were, jealous. You'd be much better off without any of them from here..."

"... Yes, but look! I have a lot of friends in Dublin. Some are guys, some are girls, and I know I'm living with a group of men and I know I'm going to be celibate..."

"Yes, son, I do, go on". She's sitting in the chair like a jockey on a racehorse, ready to reach over and pounce with an almighty hug if tears began or when the words come.

"...But I want you to know something. It's important I'm honest with you. There's something about me that you don't seem to know, maybe I haven't been clear."

"We love you, son. Whoever you are and want to be, we'll love you anyways."

"Yeah, I know that!", I'm getting manic, trying to force the words out, hating how long something so simple, something I've come to terms with, thought about a lot, prayed about a lot and have accepted about myself after years of doubt and denial is taking. "But look, I'm just telling you now. I'm straight. There, I've said it. I like girls, I'm not gay and that's it."

"What did you say?" Her tone is incredulous, as if I've just announced I'm actually a small kangaroo named Skippy.

"I said, I'm not gay. Andrea's told me what you've been saying, told me you told people you were proud of me whether I was gay or not. Well, I'm not. I don't want a boyfriend, I don't want a girlfriend, but I'm not gay."

"But..."

"But nothing, that's it! That's who I am. I've thought enough about it to know."

"Well", she said, at once utterly deflated, her own self congratulation at being a modern mother and supporting her son's identity no matter what evaporating while her acute embarrassment at having gotten it so wrong rose like her blood pressure.

"Well...

If that's the way you want to live your life, you go and do so."

The vehemence in her tone was shockingly funny. I had to laugh. She gathered her cards and her spectacles, and without speaking to me, turned her back and walked out of the room, shoulders slumped with the burden of a disappointing child. Her dream had ended.

My father looked up. "Is everything okay?", he said. "What happened?"

"Ah, I told her I wasn't gay."

"Sure I've been telling her that all along. Don't mind her. Will you have a cup of tea?"

"I will" says I. "I think I will."

My mother didn't speak to me for the rest of that evening and didn't really forgive me for a month. "My son, the gay priest" was not going to be a part of her vocabulary for the rest of my life. We laugh about it now, but every so often she'll ask "So, any sign of a girl? Or a fella?" There hasn't been. A funny woman, my mother.

Not a word of a lie. I came out as straight to my mammy. I had to. She wouldn't have believed me otherwise.

All my younger sisters in the same room

We sat chatting about Christmas presents, about parents and about DVDs. Andrea has just finished work and called over, the younger girls were drinking coke and giggling at stories of me as a small child. I'm sitting with my four younger sisters. I met two of them for the first time today.

I'll always remember finding out I had other siblings. Growing up in a two child family as the eldest, I sometimes wished for an older brother or even a twin. For a time I almost convinced myself that maybe, somehow I was a twin - that's what too much Highway to Heaven will do for you. To go from two to finding out I was part of a much bigger tribe was pretty awesome, literally.

Mary Ann and I were sitting in the hotel in Roscrea where we were to have our first formal conversation. I'd got my rehearsed "I'd just like to say thanks for putting me up for adoption, it can't have been an easy thing to do but I ended up in a very loving family and I'm very happy and I wanted you to know that." speech out of the way, and once said, I couldn't find much else. I was struck by the physical similarities in our faces - family traits had always been a fascination of mine, simply because it wasn't something I could share in growing up.

When I finally braved the question of other children, she told me of her family. Married after I was born, she'd reared a good strong country family with her husband, out in the wilds of Offaly. Shyly she produced a scrap book of photos and invited me to have a look. "Here's your brother, John" she said, pointing to one strapping young chap, "And here's your other brothers there." The photos were stuck on with sellotape, taken apparently from family albums. It's part and parcel of the Advice on What To Do when Meeting your Adopted Child procedures. Bring some photos. Make them aware of the current situation. Tell them about yourself. Props always help.

Turning the page she pointed to three young girls by a church wall. "They", she said "are your sisters." Whatever about being told I had brothers, finding out I now had sisters was almost a bigger surprise. Brothers, you see, I'd expected. Hoped for in fact. But sisters? I'd already got one of those, and she'd caused me enough trouble, so I didn't think I'd be "lucky" enough to get any more, I type very diplomatically. But I looked at those photos, thinking that in a different Ireland these could very well have been the brothers and sisters I'd grown up with.


(Even at 5, Andrea was difficult to be around :-P)

It's not that Andrea and me didn't get on, as such. We loved each other and grew up very close as young children, but once distinct teenage personalities came to the fore, that was it. At the time I met Mary Ann, Andrea and I got on great, living over 100km from each other and seeing each other once every few months. Magic.

But more sisters I had. I met Maureen in January of 2004 and was enthralled. We'd never met, never known of each other a few months before, but blood beats distance and I saw we shared a lot of similar personality traits, reactions and even mannerisms. She was my first personal experience of sibling semblance and it was an overwhelmingly positive one.

There was no awkwardness between us, other than the natural one of people becoming friends. When introduced to other people, I was her brother - there was never any explanatory talks of family history. Me, I'd have complicated thing unnecessarily, as I'm wont to do, but she immediately accepted and acknowledged me, regardless of which house I'd grown up in. When talking together, we'd talk of our mother but my mam and her mam, the distinction doubtlessly confusing to anyone not familiar with the situation. When asked it took me a while to realise I had more than one younger sister.

I met the others in ones and twos, sometimes in Offaly, more times in Dublin. The biggest test came when I was invited to a family wedding, where I'd meet them all en masse. Anxiety struck before then, let me tell you, but I was welcomed as a family member, introduced as a brother and treated like a friend throughout - a far better experience to some of the adopted family weddings I'd been invited to.

We're never going to be the Waltons, the Ingalls or Camdens, nor do we want to be. It's the differences between us that make it interesting - I grew up in a rural-urban setting, they in a rural one. They blossomed outdoors on their farm, I recuperated indoors lost in books. They are strong men in physical work; I type. The affinity we share is in kinship. There's no semblance of posturing, no sense of superiority through legitimacy. While we're related, we're not really family, in the traditional sense of the word. It's almost deeper than that, a fraternal bond based on genealogy more than genetics. We enjoy seeing each other when we can, but don't force it. We just let things happen as they happen.

Fast forward almost five years to today, when I meet my two youngest siblings. Our paths just haven't crossed until now - they're a lot different to the two small girls I saw in a photo five years ago. Eileen is in fourth year of school, loving practical subjects like Home Economics but hating maths - a lot like me. Brigid is in second year, giggling shyly as she tells me her favourite subjects are Tech drawing and lunch time. We're nervous around each other, of course, me probably more so than they. I've fallen very much out of practise of meeting new people, of giving a good impression and this one is important to me.

Though I meet them on neutral ground, in a local café for coffee beforehand, I do want them to see the house I grew up in, to meet my parents, to show just how ordinary I am, how similar our childhoods have been in many ways. My folks - ever welcoming and supportive - have met Maureen before, but I introduce them now to Michael and the girls. Andrea arrives to meet them all for the first time - she hasn't met any of that side of the family yet. We talk about everything from GAA to Home and Away, from Harry Potter to mobile ringtones. Once I relax, I'm grand. It takes a while though.



At one stage mid conversation, I look at the four girls and realise I'm quite lucky to be the older brother of four rather lovely young women. Family, though it is what you make of it, is important and this Christmas has emphasised that for me in more ways than one. I didn't grow up with these girls, but they are my family, they are my sisters and now they're part of my life. It's not a case of adopted families, biological families, half brothers and sisters or any such terms. We're in each other's lives because we want to be.

We part ways later in the evening with hugs - they have a long drive ahead of them. I'm delighted it's gone so well. On my walk home I'm texted "It was lovely to meet you bro, you're very sound". Can't ask for better than that, eh?

That John is not my father

08.09.2008

Dear Darragh

I write to update you on my trace of your birth father. I wrote to Mr John ________ last week and received a telephone call from him today. John confirmed to me that he knew your mother and that she had a baby by him in 1978. He was not aware that you had been placed for adoption.

This week I was 'introduced'
To a man called John
He's my biological father
And I'm his only son

He knew that she was pregnant
But she gave birth alone
I was born to a single woman
His whereabouts unknown

That John is not my father
Despite the DNA
There's no basis for a relationship
There's not that much to say

I do not know his story
Of how I came to be
I do not know why he wasn't there
To be a dad to me

That John is not my father
In my personal estimation
To qualify you need to give
more than a sperm donation

His choice can't have been easy
It may have caused him grief
Or just as possibly walking away
Gave him enormous relief

That John is not my father
And though I wish him well
I wonder at his recklessness
Of putting my mother through hell

Had he ever thought of me
Wondered how my life had evolved
Wondered if he was part of the world
Around which my life revolved

Had he wondered if I wondered
How he came to his decision
Did he wonder if I'd accept it
Or treat it with derision

A man of 30 as he was
Maybe should have faced his obligation
For doing the deed of planting his seed
And creating the situation

That John is not my father
It's not just about genes
It's presence from birth to adulthood
And all the in-betweens

His health is fine, my main concern
And I'm sure he was shaken
To hear at all in such circumstance
About the path my life had taken

I wonder too if he was prepared
To take that call some day
Or to face the fact I may not care
And was happier that way

I don't want to disrupt his life
Or even remind him I exist
I'll just remain as I am now
An opportunity he missed.

That John is not my father
He chose not to stick about
And so I owe him thanks at least
for the way my life turned out

My adoptive parents are my folks
The ones who made me thrive
Genes are fine but love and time
are what I needed to survive

That John is not my father
I have one of my own,
My dad John is all I need(ed)
I'm proud to be his son

That John is not my father
This John is.



And I love that he's my dad.

Darr and Darr: Pinky and the Brain

"Darr, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
"I think so, Darr, but what if the chicken won't wear the nylons?"

If Darren hadn't said it recently in one of those throw away remarks that he does that set my brain alight (as it does) I'd never have copped it.

Darren and me:



Pinky and the Brain:



The similarities are extensive. One Darr's the happy go lucky one where as the other is the intense, thinking one. One Darr is the funny one, the other is the funny looking one. One Darr can brighten any room by entering, the other does the same by leaving. Darr's always pondering and Darr is never pondering what Darr's pondering. Well, hardly ever.

If you need any more proof, just look at the ears... At least his are hidden by the hair!



For those of you who aren't familiar, Pinky and the Brain are characters from a 90s TV cartoon called Animaniacs. Both lab mice, Brain plots to take over the world while Pinky aids him in plans that never quite work out. They have a complex relationship that on the surface shouldn't work out and yet does, providing surprise and amusement for all those who come in contact with it. Sound familiar, anyone?

From the Wikipedia entry, more similarities:

Brain's head is large and wide, supposedly housing his abnormally large brain. He appears to be coldly unemotional and speaks in a deadpan manner.

Pinky is more open-minded than the Brain and much more up-beat. He doesn't let troubles ruin his day. He is also more attuned to the world at large, due to a large amount of time watching television or following other popular culture fads; as such, he tends to think in less rigorous patterns than the Brain, and has offered solutions that Brain would have not come up with.

"Darr, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
I think so, Darr, but what if the hippopotamus won't wear the beach thong?

Darren and I struck up an unlikely friendship online just over 18 months ago, and have known each other in "real life" almost as long. (Yes Darr, it does feel like longer!) At the time I had moved to Dublin city centre from London, via a few months in Barretstown so most of the people I had known before London had either moved away or we'd lost touch. I was looking for someone to take over the world with people to become friends with and through a random combination of liking the interaction we had on the forums - he's always been a clever, insightful writer - and Darren and Lottie being open to meeting, that's how it began.

Lukka Bloom's 1990 hit You couldn't have come at a better time is (without the romantic element) strangely an appropriate theme. We just clicked and became great friends, started hanging out and going to events together - so much so for a while I think some people assumed we were a couple. Ha! (As if I'd have him :-P)



Our personal interaction is amusing in many ways. Although both Leos (our birthdays separated by a week (and three years)) and therefore apparently destined to dominate for top lion, our personalities instead serve to complement our often manic natures. In crowds we both revel in the spotlight, one being the personality and the other the inventive one with the roles interchanging often. Our styles of communication may differ but we share the same (often very strange) sense of humour where it often doesn't take that much to set us both off.



We're both adopted (not just as Grannymar's toyboys) and also apparently both shy, awkward kids growing up, despite a shared love of drama, musicals and singing badly.

We're also both, for the most part, well intentioned. In the cartoon, Brain's ambition and drive to "take over the world" is not borne from megalomania, but rather as beneficial to the world. "We're on our way to fame, fortune and a world that's a better place for all." he tells Pinky, and in our version, it's something we're both looking for in our own way. The "fame" however comes from the friends we make, the "fortune" is our contentment with our respective lots (no, not you!) and a better place is bound to have laughter, conversation and a decent pint.

"Darr, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
"I think so, Darr, but I find scratching just makes it worse."

Writing about any friendship is not only difficult but quite insular and prone to excluding those who don't know us. Yet, somehow, strangely it makes sense. Alexia's post yesterday about digital breadcrumbs prompted the question as to whether the way you "judge" people changes the more of their online presence you consume.

I think for Darr and Darr it has added an extra dimension to the interaction - we both read and comment on each other's blogs, we'll point out mistakes or suggestions and generally encourage each other's endeavours. We may not always agree but our debating skills improve as a result. Though we attend many of the same events, I somehow feel it's Darren's skill to capture a movie or music in words, which he does with considerable expertise. Other times he'll discover I've done something or tried something which he'll be equally enthusiastic about.

I try to write this not as a "oh we're best mates and it's great and he's great and I'm great" point, but more so how the things we do make the friendship that bit stronger every time. An important part of the cartoon is this, and it is brought home to me time and time again, in both the gentle manner of the guy and his direct, nonsense-free approach in stark contrast to my all-too-often "well I think it so it must be so" lack of tact:

The show's theme song informs the viewer that "One is a genius, the other's insane", but does not elaborate further. While Brain may seem more intelligent, Pinky's unpredictable and startling insight as a foil to Brain's rather more plodding and stubborn approach suggests that Pinky is, in fact, the real genius rather than Brain.

And in many ways isn't that what every friendship should be? A complex but enjoyable affinity where the actions and reactions both complement and challenge each other while causing laughter and amusement around them, where neither dominates but somehow, you're better together than as just one. There is no competitive comparison to be made between us - we're different, and it's the differences we enjoy. We're both pinky, we're both the brain, both fiercely intelligent and mad as badgers. We're friends, brothers, family. Characters in our own self-drawn reality. We like it here :)

Plus, I'd do almost anything to get the chance to do this in karaoke some evening:



though I quite fancy doing the brainstem bit ;-)

Darr, are you pondering what I'm pondering?"
Whoof, oh, I'd have to say the odds of that are terribly slim Darr.
True.
I mean, really, when have I ever been pondering what you've been pondering?
To my knowledge, never.
Exactly. So, what are the chances that this time, I'm pondering what you're pondering?
Next to nil.
Well, that's exactly what I'm thinking, too.
Therefore, you *are* pondering what I'm pondering.
Poit, I guess I am! Narf!"

Damn you Byrne, I was doing so well without the image of me as a mouse. That'll stick. So I suppose the question must be asked - "Gee Darr, whaddya wanna do tonight then"?

My dad's not Written Off either

My dad was 55 when he decided to learn how to read and write.



Having seen his children through school and into college and with my mother and him having an emptier house, they took it on themselves to find out where and how he could finally get rid of the one thing that he felt was holding him back.

It was never discussed that my dad couldn't read - I knew he didn't read but it was one of those family things that was glossed over, never talked about. My mother taught me to read at an early age and was always the one that I went to for guidance on pronunciation or spelling, despite herself having left school at 13.



Dad was a builder, a labourer, he worked on the land, he had a few cows. He'd never be accused of intellectual pursuits - TV was the news, the GAA and the Sunday Game, maybe a bit of Glenroe. He'd be silent while we'd shout out the answers to Where in the World or to Countdown, the odd time the weather was good/bad enough to make out the faint signal. He "wouldn't be bothered with books now at all, though make sure you do your lessons and learn. That's very important".



The postman wouldn't have been as much welcomed as feared if my mother or sister weren't around. Forms would not be signed. Bills would be paid if he recognised the colours or knew where to pay them, but otherwise nothing. How he got through and managed is a testament to his own resourcefulness as well as the support of his wife.

It was only late into my teens I began to ask Dad about his youth, about growing up, where he was from and what he did when he was younger. I'd been happy enough to accept the fobbed off answers when a child, but the more my identity became important to me, so did the identity and story of my parents. Being in a small village things like this were not talked about, were not acknowledged. After all, what would the neighbours say?



When I was studying in Dublin, he decided to start to learn the basics. TV programmes like Read Write Now were coming on air and with the help of the local health board he found a tutor to give him weekly lessons.

He started out on the basics - writing his name, his address. He moved to sentences, to verbs, to spelling and some grammar. He worked his way through basic books and beyond on to more complicated lessons, where he was reading and comprehending, answering questions and writing down his own memories, telling his own stories.



Every time I go home now I see him working on something. He has three big folders full of exercises and he'll lift up a newspaper now to try and understand. It has made him more confident, more empowered to deal with things, to not be daunted by bills or forms or long words. He breaks it down until he understands. He may not be online yet but he's getting there.

And I'm very, very proud of him.



He is not alone. The Government target for adult literacy target by 2016 states the proportion of the population aged between 16 and 64 with restricted literacy will be reduced to between 10 and 15%. According to CORI:

Even if this target is achieved it means that Government accepts as okay that there will be between 320,000 and 475,000 people with basic literacy problems in Ireland in the working age group in 2016.

NALA, the National Adult Literacy Agency do amazing work in this area. At present there are more than 28,000 people participating in VEC adult literacy programmes. This is more than a four-fold increase since 1997 when 5,000 people were attending the literacy service and 25% of the Irish population were found to be at the lowest level of literacy.

Tonight I watched their latest TV series, Written Off?



The show follows the progress of eleven individuals embark on an education course not only designed to teach them to read and write, but to attempt to improve their lives dramatically.

There's a wide mix of people ages from 17 to 52 - the street trader from Dublin, the homeless 18 year old, the Cork taxi driver whose business failed under the pressure of getting through the paperwork and more. It's quite an inspiring show that RTÉ and the production company, Animo TV should be congratulated for.



The bravery of these people to both do the course and to do so on camera should not be underestimated. Most of us would be daunted enough about saying "I don't know this" but doing so to the whole country on National TV about something most people think everyone does anyway is something else.

A round table discussion at the Kilternan Open Market in tonight's show was fascinating - a local farmer shared his story of being able to read but whose spelling and numeracy were very poor, so when Department of Agriculture forms or the like came in, it presented a monumental challenge.

He's now doing his Leaving Cert after doing maths and English in his Junior Cert. As he described his challenges, the eleven around him nodded their heads in recognition and were delighted in his success, recognising how much effort it had taken and seeing that they were not alone. One woman was delighted at her new ability to fill out an Xtra-vision application form.

Thank God we as a nation seem to be facing up to problems like this, that we're empowering the people who didn't have the opportunities to learn to access the information, to get that level of confidence and skill that so many of us take for granted.

The more we talk about things, to show that it's okay to admit that we can't read or write so well, that we can't use computers or Google, that we don't know how to comment on blogs the more opportunities to learn we can create and the more people we can help.



If you know anyone who could do with help with their literacy, please direct them towards the NALA website or freephone 1800 20 20 65. They'll get materials posted out to them which they can then use at their own pace in the comfort of their own home.

You can watch the previous episodes of Written Off? here.

Don't say a word to her!

Please, please, please do NOT say anything to my mother. Not a word. She'll just get all of these ideas into her head, she'll want to do something about it and she'll want to join in. And really I don't want that. Not really.

No, I'm not talking about this, I'm talking about Grandad's post on computers being made for older people. You couldn't have kept it to yourself sir, no?

Microsoft UK is developing a "senior PC", which will have a simple interface and be aimed at older users.

The PC will come with software that allows users to manage prescriptions as well as simplified tools for everyday use, such as managing photos.

Jaysis.


Photo owned by pepewk (cc)

Now I love my mother. Honestly. She's one of the only two I have, but she's the one that reared me, that changed nappies and stayed up at night when I was sick and so on. And while I'd like to see her being a bit like Olive, the 108 year old blogger from Australia or Maria from Spain who's 95 or even jurassic Grandad himself, technology and herself have never been the best of friends.

I can completely empathise with the very funny Bec's apprehension at her dad being on Facebook now. It's funny how parents are similar :

He rang me up a few weeks ago to inform me about this new brilliant previously unknown website he had just discovered that you could join and meet people you know on, and how amazing and ground-breaking it was and how he just thought that I should probably be told about such things because I work in computers and I should really keep up to date on the latest trends.

I can so see my mother doing that to me. And there are certain photos, never mind comments, friend stories or videos that I'd prefer my mother not to be worried about. Remind me to tell you about this some time:



But to highlight just why I'd be very apprehensive, let me share this true story. (It may help to read it in a culchie accent)

After years of "sure why would I want one of those things?" my mother finally let me buy her a mobile phone.

'Tis a very simple type - none of your fancy wap or bluetooth or even a camera - push buttons, press green, talk.


Image from mobilegazette.com

We sat together for an afternoon, me going through it patiently, writing things down, ringing the phone, her answering, her ringing me, me answering, ringing the house phone etc. She said she had it. I thought she had it.

I left for Dublin.

She was off to Kilkenny the next day and we had arranged that I would call her at 2pm just to see how her hospital appointment went. I called her at 2. No answer. 2.05 no answer. 2.15 no answer. And so on.

Checked if she was at home - no response there either.

Hmmmm.

The phone was ringing, it wasn't switched off. Had she turned it to silent? Had she lost it already?

Later that evening I got a call from home.

"Where were you earlier? I tried to call. Is the phone okay?"

"Don't talk to me about that bloody phone. Terrible yoke. We were up early to go in, so I put it into me bag. I had it charged like you told me. Off we went.

I took it out at half one. I said to save you the money I'd give you a call. I dialled your number and pressed the button - nothing.

I tried it again - nothing.

I pressed the red button like you showed me to make sure it was on - nothing.

I tried ringing your sister - no answer. I tried your uncle - no answer. Couldn't get the thing to work at all at all.



So I brought it back to that shop you bought it in, looking for a refund. I didn't have the receipt but sure they could have rung you.

So I told the fella behind the counter that the phone was a dud and he should be ashamed for selling them and that I'd complain to the ombudsman and everything.

And he looked at the phone

And he said

"Mrs, sorry about that but that's your TV remote control".

True story, I promise.



And now there's a chance she could get onto a computer?

Uh oh.

Do not tell her a thing!

You'd be lucky to get a go on a see-saw

Saturday morning I was looking out the back window here in D15 and saw this in a neighbour's back garden:



Yep, that's right. A bouncy castle. In someone's back yard. Not in a fairground or a parish field day but out the back.

Wow.

It got me thinking about home. I was due home to see the mammy for her 68th birthday on Monday and quite suddenly I got a bit ... not so much apprehensive or nostalgic but wistful I suppose.



I grew up in south Kilkenny, far away from the bright lights and big smoke of Dublin. Darren blogs fondly about Talbot Street, but I think I must have been 18 before I even ventured south of the Liffey - I still remember the first time I discovered Grafton Street at the tender age of 11. I remember thinking it was the coolest place on earth, at least to my eyes.

It wasn't that we hadn't travelled - it was just we hadn't travelled much, through a combination of my travel sickness and the lack of necessity of going to Dublin. We'd spent summers in Galway, done the beaches of Wexford, visited Santa in Waterford and so on.



As someone reminded me recently, 'twas far from caramel lattes I was reared.



In many ways my youth in Graiguenamanagh (15 letters, 15 pubs) is completely different to my life now. The reaction of my city friends now to learning that my first cinema film was The Land Before Time (1988) and the second was Jurassic Park (1993), that I'd never been on a yacht or sailboat in Dun Laoghaire, or been on the Dart till I moved to Dublin, been abroad till 21 or to Funderland until I was 23 (though we did have Leisureland in Galway and the now gone Celtworld in Tramore...) is always funny, but not much different to many other people from down the country really. We were poor but we were happy.

But we didn't have bouncy castles out the back :(



Can you imagine? Every kid from miles around would be over, bouncing. Most of the "cool" kids who didn't want to be seen with the small, pale, non-sporty, big-eared bookworm would swallow their pride (or pretend to) for a go. The parents would have congregated. There'd have been queues! You could probably have charged.

Most Irish children are better off now. Better books in (some) schools, much better TV programs, more libraries, internet resources and facilities and - yes - parents who can afford bouncy castles out the back. And good for them.

Heading home to see the mammy had me thinking a lot about what I'm doing now and how far I've come. I mean it's all very well to be swanning around to launches, concerts, movie festivals and the like but I find it helps to remember that me father is at home, getting water from a stream for his few cows









and that while a bouncy castle out the back garden in Blanchardstown is all well and good while it's sunny, overall, I've always got these views to return to







and I wouldn't give memories like this up for the world.



Bouncy castles last a day; being a culchie lasts a lifetime ;-)