Auntie, “It wasn’t so much that he looked like his dad; more that they shared the, um, wotsits…”

Cousin, “Mannersisms?”

Auntie, “Yeah, those. It was the same with my brothers. The way they’d get out of the armchair was just how my
Dad used to.”

Cousin, “It’s an innate thing…”

Auntie, “It is! It’s an ape thing!”

Me, “Did you just say it was an ‘ape thing’?”

Auntie, “Yeah. It is an ape thing. It goes right back…”

*cue much laughter*

Someone, “More wine anyone?”

Not had a minute really. It’s been a mad few weeks. Work’s busy, which is great. But outside of work I feel like I’ve largely been drunk since the end of February. What with Six Nations frivolities with Jules, complete with the now infamous DonnchaPants; Paddy’s Day, Twestivals, Blog Awards, Leviathan, 30th Birthday parties, a visit from The Cousin & other random, impromptu nights out, my poor liver’s begun to audibly wince whenever boozing is mentioned.

I’m beginning to feel a bit frazzled to say the least. Not that it’ll stop me, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Besides, the parents are over this weekend and there are more festivities planned for that. So, for now, I shall continue to burn the candle at both ends, like thus…

That’s a visual metaphor of me, burning the aforementioned candle, at both of the equally aforementioned, ends. NOT setting fire to my own farts. To be clear. I don’t do that, because, well, I’m, not four-fucking-teen for starters.

Don’t light your own farts kids. It’s not big, it’s not clever and there’s always the risk that if you try to hard to fart you’ll shart and then we’re in a whole other world of pain.

I’ve gone off on a tangent, but fuck it, my point stands. Whatever it was.

While sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the detritus that apparently sums up my life, I got to thinking about how little of it I give a genuinely care about (shoes & books aside, of course, I have too many of both and an irrational resistance to getting rid of any).

I started thinking about the old, “what would you save if your house was on fire?” question. Aside from the fact that if my house was actually on fire, I would wouldn’t actually give a shit about saving any of it, as frankly saving my own ass is more important, there are a few things that I would be heartbroken to lose.

• My Dad’s thesaurus. About 30 years old and falling to pieces – in fact there’s a whole chunk of the S section missing, but I’ll never part with it.
• My Winnie the Pooh beanie. The last thing my Grandad gave me just before he died. It came with an Easter egg, which was to be my last because I’d just bought my first home and was apparently, therefore too old for Easter eggs. He died about 6 weeks later.
• A picture of my sister and me, when we lived in Canada. A rare moment of sisterly affection & not arguing miraculously caught on camera.
• The ring my Mum & Dad gave me for being a bridesmaid when they got married. Doesn’t fit me sadly, as I’m no longer a ridiculously skinny 12 year old.
• This painting‘s a recent acquisition, but one that I really love. I like to imagine what the two old guys are chatting about. Really need to get it framed though.

As for the rest, well, I’ve decided to have a huge de-cluttering session. Probably chuck a few of the pricier bits on Ebay and the rest I’ll give away to charity or take to the Bring Centre to recycle. Minimalism shall be my new middle name.

So, what have I been up to? Mainly just chilling out back in England with the family over Christmas and then ripping it up in Ireland with friends new & old so far this New Year.

Christmas was lovely – just what the doctor ordered in fact. After a pretty stressful end to the year, I was very much looking forward to getting home & back to Walker Mansions.

It was especially lovely to be met by my gloriously bonkers mother at Manchester Airport, hit the pub with her and my Dad, watch the snow fall & see my Sister and her boyfriend, along with my Auntie, Cousins & pseudo-nephew Dylan too and eat my (ever increasing) body weight in pork pies and red onion chutney. Good times.

Then, in stark, yet superbly enjoyable, contrast came New Year shenanigans. After landing back to a somewhat blustery Dublin (& by blustery I mean gale-force, but 2010 is the year of the understatement don’t you know) I caught up with my two favourite boys, Dan & Alan and my new favourite hearthrob Sam Worthington when we went to see Avatar (and yes, I am VERY excited at the prospect of seeing him in Clash of the Titans – hottie in leather, fighting - what’s not to love?!).

Then came New Year’s Eve, a trip to Funderland with John, cava with my aforementioned favourite boys, vodka, Panti Bar, lots of laughs, some dancing, kissing the bouncer (the only straight man in the village after all) a house party, walking in the snow, another house party, a Toulouse Lautrec impression, walking in the snow, more drinks & then finally, sleep.

After a day of enforced rest, due to the wintry weather we’ve been having of late and Dublin City Council not knowing their gritted arse from their ice-ridden elbow, I headed over to Kinvara to meet up with some of my favourite girls – shares a knowing smile with Caroline, Jess & Lisa.

Cue a night or two of showing the small, rural Irish town how four girls from a not-so-small English city like to throw booze down their necks. Apparently it was impressive as we made some more new friends – tips hat to Mousey, Ger, Tommy & Fintan. Thanks for the giggles boys!

Along with the visually pleasing calendar by the boys of Kinvara United FC (see below), getting said calendar signed, many pints of Guinness, way too many vodka & red bulls (and subsequent caffeine induced heart palpitations), lock-ins & moon-walking.

The rest of the story is embargoed, frankly because it’s more than my life’s worth to tell you. Needless to say, MANY laughs were had and stories will be retold and in-jokes referenced in times to come.

So, all in all a very good couple of weeks and just what I needed. Plus, now that my techno-pipes are working again & allowing me to commit my every mildly interesting thought & whim to cyber-paper, you’ll be hearing a lot more from me (& Dan can stop nagging me to blog more).

PS – Yes, I still have the calendar & yes, it’s getting pride of place dans ma boudoir.

PPS – Happy new year everyone Hope you have a good’un.

I am currently home in the UK with the family for a few days, which is lovely. It also inevitably means that at some stage my Mum and I will go shopping. This time there was discussion about Christmas creeping in. Namely my mum asking me what I wanted from her & dad… so far I have given this a total of zero seconds  thought. Eep!

Subsequently I then started to think about what I’m going to get people. Then we stumbled upon these beauties and I know a few people who are going to get a jazzy Suberversive Cross Stitch gift for Chrimbo. Needles at the ready!

It was the funeral I didn’t think I’d have to go to for a long, long time. Even with all of the illness of the last few years, I still didn’t think I’d have to go to his funeral. Not for a good few years yet.

My uncle Dave. Always present in my life. My mum’s brother, my cousin’s dad, hell he was almost like another dad to me – I’ve never known a world without him in it. But he was gone and we had to say good bye.

Things being what they are, the whole process of organising a funeral takes a bit longer back in the UK than it does over here in Ireland, so it was scheduled, after much pressure from my Dad upon “The Powers That Be”, for the Friday following his death, which gave me enough time to get home and spend time with the family.

But this wasn’t going to be an ordinary funeral. We hadn’t lost anybody ordinary, so why should it?! My Uncle Dave was a massive Man United fan, as are all the football fans in the family (you get disowned if you try and rebel. You either support United or don’t follow football. Simple as!) So, in honour of this, my Aunt & Cousins asked us all to wear something red to the funeral – as little or as much as we wanted.

The day came and we were all in bits. My Auntie Katreen was holding it together for my cousins, Nicola & Angela. My Dad was holding it together for everyone and I was… well, not holding it together very well at all. Every time I looked them in the eye it set me off. Not like me at all. Those who know me know about my emotional pragmatism. I was mortified that I was crying. I just wanted to be strong for my mum, my aunt & my cousins. So I pulled it together.

Now, one of the things that comes with a large, extended family is family politics. Unfortunately one of the things that didn’t come was a third limo to fit much of the extended family in. So, things being what they are, my sister Colette and I ended up having to follow in my Mum’s car. Nothing wrong with that, I’m happy to go wherever. Before the cars arrived my Dad gave me a quick refresher about driving an automatic and a word of warning about the width of the car – in fairness he had a point, their jeep-type thing is MUCH bigger than my little hatchback. But I’m a fairly good driver so it was all cool.

Then the hearse and two limos arrived and we all agreed what order we would drive to the Crematorium in. Hearse, Limos 1 & 2, my Great Uncle’s driver in the next car, then some cousins in the Bentley, me & Colette in my Mum’s car and then two more cars of cousins. Fine. No problem there.

The time came to leave so Colette and I went to get into the car and wait for the cars to start passing us so that we could join them in the appropriate place. I started the car, put it into “drive” and waited my turn.

Then it was my turn. But the handbrake wouldn’t come off. Fuck! I couldn’t move the sodding car. My sister waved the following cars on passed us as I wrestled with the handbrake that my Dad had wedged so tightly on. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

I lifted my foot off the break and the car began to move. Phew, I thought, we’ll catch them up in no time. As I got to the junction at the end of the road, about 30ft from where we’d set off, a kind man stopped to let me out. But the car wouldn’t move… the handbrake was STILL ON!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

Now I was really panicking. We were going to be so late. My Mum was going to be doing her nut wondering where we were. We couldn’t even phone anyone to tell them what was going on as we’d all turned our mobiles off before getting into the cars. Oh shit, bollocky, arse!

Somehow I managed to reverse the car into a nearby driveway, still with the handbrake on and with the car generally making some very unhappy sounds at me. Needless to say, the tears had come flooding back by this point. I could see my cousins’ cars and my now deceased Uncle’s car – all of which I had driven before and none of which I had the sodding keys to. Shit, tits, arse & shit! I was actually going to miss my Uncle’s funeral at this rate. My Mum would never forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me. A large scale meltdown was mere seconds away and then, voila! The handbrake came off.

So we ragged it all the way to the crematorium. All 3 miniscule miles of it. I was sweating with panic so the air con was on full, aimed at my forehead and armpits (I was in a grey sleeveless dress and sweat patches would simply NOT do!) as we sped along to try and make it in time. We sped right passed the entrance.

I parked up  as close as I could to the pedestrian entrance (as in I left the car with one rear wheel on the curb and the rear window half open. Could I be arsed to straighten it up – what do you think?) and my sister and I legged it through the cemetary at speed to try and make it in time.

As we reached the brow of the hill & looked down towards the chapel we could see a modest amount of people, and in particular, a woman in a red jacket. Phew, that’s them, I thought. So we ran to join them. But as we got closer I didn’t recognise any of them, there were no cars and we were getting some really funny looks. Oh shit! This isn’t our funeral.

As I turned to look at my sister, I saw some people on the other side of the building… at the entrance to the OTHER chapel. So we ran again. Through bracken, over broken bricks & jumped over a 2ft wall to burst around the corner to find our family, all waiting to start going into the chapel. It was like a bad joke. A scene from a Richard Curtis movie but without Hugh Grant, just me saying “fuck” repeatedly.

Once we had regained composure and my sister had pointed out that my forehead was covered in bits of tissue from where I’d tried to wipe the aforementioned panic sweat from it, we all started to move into the chapel to finally say goodbye to my Unle Dave.

As funeral services go, it was as good as they get. Standing room only and then some – we couldn’t even close the chapel doors so many people had come to say a final farewell and pay their respects. They even had speakers outside. Over 100 people.  Not bad for a man who didn’t really say very much to anyone.

My Dad read a eulogy that had us crying and laughing, as the best eulogies do, and my Uncle’s cousin read a poem. My Aunt & Cousins had chosen some really lovely music to be played during (no hymns though as it was a humanist service) and then to bid him a final farewell the song he’d have loved the most – “Come On You Reds” by Status Quo, the Manchester United song of 1994. Brilliant!

Afterwards it was back to the hotel for the wake. A sit down meal for 100 people and more speeches: a letter from my cousin to her Dad, a goodbye speech from his best mate, a 10-minute speech from my Great Uncle who wasn’t going to make a speech and another impromptu speech from my Uncle’s Cousin. Everyone wanted to say goodbye to the Dave that they knew. Every one of us knew him differently and every one of us was devastated.

I’d stayed up until 3.20 that morning putting together a slide-show presentation of images of my Uncle Dave that were going to be projected onto a wall of the function room. One less job off my Cousin’s to-do list in the run up to the funeral I’d thought – she’s got enough on her plate. Except when I plugged the laptop into the projector and switched it all on it all it had all gone horribly wrong. Everything had either reverted to it’s uncropped state and/or become horribly distorted. Despite a 348th dry-run that morning before we set off.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

This cannot be happening to me. Not today, not now, not with this. I’d gladly let it happen to me in 100 client-facing presentations in the future if only it wouldn’t happen with this. But it did. Shit! Fortunately the team at the hotel were really lovely and let me camp out in their office for an hour while I re-cropped every single image. All 143 of them. Panic No. 2 over. Phew! Now to get on with spending time with my family and giving my Uncle Dave a great send off.

And how we did – tears, grief, panics, wasp stings (my sister as we were getting into the car), speeches, wine aplenty (he’d have had it no other way) and family stories being trotted out left, right & centre.

Along with which comes all of my Aunts, Great Aunts, Second Cousins, family friends etc ruing the fact that we couldn’t all get together under nicer circumstances… like a wedding. “Isn’t it a shame we have no weddings planned?”,  “When are one of you lot going to get hitched then?”, looking my cousins, my sister and I in the face when they said it. Jeez people, we’re trying!

And so, we gave him a typical family goodbye after the service, complete with 11 solid hours of drinking, reminiscing, story telling and laughter – lots and lots of laughter. He for one would have cried with laughter at the drama that I went through for him on the day – if I believed in ghosts then I’d be pretty sure that most of it was his doing as it was his sense of humour to a tee!

But we gave him the send off he deserved & one I know he would have wanted. He’d probably be pretty gutted to have missed it.

I know we were all devastated that he had to.

Dave Smalley - Deeply Missed

None of us were.

He was fighting the Leukemia. Fighting it like the stubborn, obstinate bloke that we all knew him to be and loved him for. Since the bone marrow transplant in May he hadn’t been the best and was really ill, but we had been forewarned to expect this though and hard as it was, we all knew that it was all part of the road to recovery.

And then it happened. A brain haemorrhage on the Thursday, a rush to hospital and a phone call from my Dad about 10.45pm. Typical Dad fashion; trying to find a way to tell me the news without upsetting & worrying me. His voice at once heartbreaking and still somehow comforting, the way only my Dad’s can be.

That’s when I really hate living in a different country to my family. Immediately what’s only a relatively small distance between them & me feels like an immeasurable amount because I can’t be there with them instantly – I might as well be living on the moon.

But what could I do even if I was at home? So I waited. We all did. The next 24 hours were going to be critical according to the hospital. We just needed to wait and see. Friday was a bit of a blur of phone calls and checking my phone every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t missed anyone.

The news was bittersweet with every update  - he was holding on but had become paralysed down his left side; he wasn’t conscious;he was conscious again but there were complications… on it went. The first 24 hours were over but the next were still going to be touch & go. So we waited some more.

Then Saturday came. I was waiting and waiting for updates and hopefully some good news. My mum called at about 5pm – the news wasn’t great, but they were operating and were hopeful that it would stabilise things. Fuck this I thought, I need to be at home and before Midday the next day I was back in Blighty and had finally been able to give my mum a much needed hug.

Monday was a day in the hospital. As we arrived I saw my cousin talking on the phone outside the main entrance. Before I even saw her face I knew it wasn’t good. Complications as they tried to bring him around after the operation and we were all preparing ourselves for the worst. Yet another MRI scan and more worry for my aunt, cousins, mum… there were about 15 of us there waiting for news.

But there hadn’t been another bleed which was good. Though the pressure on his brain meant another operation was required. This time to remove part of his skull to relieve it and get him out of danger. By now the family room in the ICU had become a little claustrophobic so we decamped to the pub across the road from the hospital in true Smalley/Walker/Rooney family style, while we waited for news.

And the operation went well – phew! But they were going to keep him deeply sedated for a few days to let the pressure lower and steer him out of danger. By Tuesday I had to head back to Ireland and back into work in the morning.

Regular updates were continuing to come through, and some stability seemed to have been found. Then we found out he had developed chest infection. They couldn’t give him any drugs for it as he’d had too many already, so he was going to have to fight this one on his own. Fingers were crossed again – already weak from the transplant and then the trauma of the past few days, would he be able to fight it? Er, this is my Uncle Dave we’re talking about here – if anyone can it’s him right?

And as they began bringing him around on Thursday & Friday the news was fairly positive. The pressure in his brain wasn’t spiking again. He had even regained movement on his left side. A bit of a temperature but on the whole things were looking a little more hopeful. Phew! Time for us all to exhale a little. Time to let my hair down a bit with a few Saturday night beers.

9.26 Sunday morning.

My mobile is on the bedside cabinet & starts to ring. No phone call at this time of a Sunday can be good news. I picked it up & looked at the screen “Mum Mobile”. My heart sank. I answered and heard my Dad’s voice, “Hey baby…” That’s all it took – an early Sunday morning phonecall, on my Mum’s phone, from my Dad

I knew, but I wasn’t ready though.

A new bleed during the night and “nothing more we can do”. And my Uncle Dave was gone.

Shit!

Shit shit shitty shit!

I wasn’t ready. None of us were.