August 2015 – CHATTER

Ann Allan: As Good As it Gets.

Posted on 27/08/201503/05/2016 by Chatter

Summer is nearly over and Autumn is almost upon us. Time to have a look back at the last few months and what has been happening. For those of you who have followed my ‘journey’ to get my new teeth, The journey’s over. I’ve reached the end of the road and it’s been a long one. It hasn’t taken quite as long as it has for the Orangemen to get up the road but it has at times been just as frustrating. I now have a full set of knashers and I can assure you that it’s a peculiar feeling to go from no bottom teeth to a full set in a matter of minutes. But they look great and I am growing in confidence everyday. It’s also very romantic as the hubby and I can now place our teeth side by side on the bathroom shelf. I had my treatment at Cranmore Dentistry on Windsor Avenue. The staff were excellent and on the one day that I had a wobbly David Nelson was there to reassure me and talk me through the procedures. All in all I was very brave.

Chatter is doing well. I have still got a faithful following. But the competition is growing and every other tweet contains a link to a blog. We are becoming a nation of bloggers exposing our souls, our inmost thoughts and fears to strangers who in most cases probably don’t give a damn. There is a danger I think that we can be tempted to unload too much personal information. Once it’s out there it can’t be taken back. I feel that there is a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed. I base that on my own experiences of confiding in someone re personal problems and then regretting it when the problem has been sorted. I’m not saying we bloggers shouldn’t be honest but there is a danger of going too far. On a positive note Chatter has been short listed onto the long list in the Blogs Awards Ireland. In the next two weeks it will be announced as to whether we have been short listed to the short list. Keep up. If this is as far as Chatter gets I am still very pleased and wish my fellow contestants all the best. ( Liar, liar, pants on fire)
At the beginning of June I was looking forward to a long hot summer. Forecasts of heat waves were abundant. I treated myself to new clothes suitable for basking out n the patio, barefoot, cold drink in hand soaking up my daily dose of Vitamin D. Instead dull cloudy weather. It’s been such a cool summer that the wasps usually in abundance at this time of year seem to have hibernated already. So the new clothes still with their labels on will stay in the wardrobe until next year. I honestly don’t know why I buy new clothes. Getting up in the morning I go for the old, washed out top and jeans, thinking I’ll keep the new ones for a special occasion. The special occasion rarely arises and when it does I look in the wardrobe and can’t find anything to wear. The hubby on the other hand looks as if he dresses in the dark and now that I think of it, he does. The best clothes in the wardrobe are put on to cut the grass, walk round a wet muddy golf course and wash the car. No matching outfits with him. I am however delighted to say that as in other years, the bees have returned to the lavender plants and are extremely busy pollinating whatever they pollinate.
We’ve had the Nama scandal this year and allegations about the shenanigans of our glorious leaders. Apparently window cleaners are being exposed to horrific scenes. This should be a warning to all those hot-blooded couples who want to have sex in the afternoon to remember to close the curtains otherwise there are going to be a lot of window cleaners suffering from PTSD. Will they be able to sue? Or just claim on insurance?
As well as The Nama scandal we’ve had crisis after crisis on the political scene. Welfare bills, alleged shady dealings from those up on the Hill and latterly the ten bob question as to whether the Provos are back or did they ever go away? What a place? Corruption and sleaze, in fighting, mistrust. All the makings of a political drama. But unfortunately it’s our government. A laughing-stock abroad. No one has the courage of their convictions to act in the interest of the country, apparently, the salary and the status being more important.

How to sort it out? The million dollar question. Dissolve the assembly and we leave a vacuum for those who wish to bring us back to violence? Keep it going, knowing the problems will not go away? SF are always going to have a mandate so can’t be excluded and the other parties also have a core vote so it looks as if we are stuck with what we have got. So nout else to do but get on with it and make it work. Cause in reality nobody’s going anywhere.

Marriage guidance may be called for again to sort out the problems of those parties who can’t live in agreement. Time to look at the marriage vows. What happens to the children? ( SDLP and Alliance being the bigger kids and NI21, TUV and Greens, the rug rats ) At the time of writing UUP has decided there has always been three in this marriage and they have had enough. Besides, its one in the face for their former lover who they had a brief affair with in order to get two of their members elected to Westminister. This could turn out to be a clever move with the assets from the divorce settlement going to them in May. Time will tell.

One of our problems is that many of our younger population see the troubles as in the past. They didn’t live through bombs, murders and the terrible times we had in the 70 ‘s 80’s and 90’s . They didn’t experience what it was like to live with the thought that when you or your family went about their day-to-day lives, there was always the fear that they wouldn’t come back alive. They look back and are fed the propaganda that it was a glorious struggle for a United Ireland or a glorious struggle to protect the union. It wasn’t. It was a frightening time with the loss of over 3000 lives. Innocent communities and innocent victims. But when you haven’t experienced it it’s hard to relate to the fact that this was not a just war. So we are stuck with the situation. We are incapable of breaking the sectarian voting patterns that have been the root of all our problems. We are not mature enough to vote for the things that matter most and break the cycle. We need new faces we need new politics but above all we need to accept that this may be as good as it gets.

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Patricia Cole: The Arrogance of Youth

Posted on 24/08/201514/02/2023 by Chatter

“My mother Patricia Cole passed away in 2006. I came across this ‘blog’ in which she described her time in London at the height of the war in 1944. I was amazed at how her style of writing was so like my own. I hope you enjoy it. I know she would have been delighted to see her words in print.”

We were interviewed in Belfast – good secretarial qualifications and a broad education were required – we satisfied the requirements. It was in early Spring 1944 and the four of us, the three Bradley sisters and myself ‘ imbued with the spirit of youth and adventure’ arrived in London to join the staff of the American Forces Network.

The journey via Larne -Stranraer-London was a nightmare.’ U-boats ‘ bobbed up and down as the ship made its way down the lough. We listened with racing hearts as the Captain gave instructions as to what to do if the ship’s bell sounded four times. Getting into a life jacket was a difficult and uncomfortable manoeuvre. The train journey was no different as just outside London the train stopped. We were informed that an air raid was in progress and it was then that I began to have doubts about leaving a comfortable home and a reasonably good job.

At Euston station we were met by a representative of the Women’s Voluntary Service who had arranged accommodation for Una, Joan, Norah and myself. We were taken by underground to Oxford Street by a Mrs Slator. Standing at the top of the escalator looking down at that moving steel animal I was petrified. ‘ Be sure to step on, don’t catch your foot ‘ advised Mrs Slator. I can still remember the fear and that stayed with me for almost a year after I arrived in the war-torn, doodle bugged London.

We had promised our loved ones that we would stay together and we were lucky. Motherly Mrs Slator escorted us to Muswell Hill and into a big comfortable bedroom containing a double bed and two stretcher beds. We must have been asleep for hours when the dreadful drone of the air raid siren awoke us. Mrs Slater was yelling for us to either go to the garden shelter or scramble under the stairs.

My kindly old aunt had given me a small Pond’s cold cream jar filled with ‘holy water.’ It had been a source of embarrassment to me when I opened my case for security when getting on the boat. At three o clock that morning it became a comfort to all of us, the Slater family included, even though they were Church Of England.

The following morning we took a bus to Marble Arch and walked to the side entrance of the Grosvenor House Hotel. The Americans had taken over the back portion of the premises. We entered a reception room where there were quite a number of other girls. Una and Joan, being older and more sophisticated, were delegated their duties quite early. Norah and I waited and waited and to our horror we were informed that a miscalculation had resulted in an over recruitment of personnel. I felt absolute despair for the first time in my young life.

Is your journey really necessary? This was the slogan we read as the stations flashed by. We were en route to Manchester. For two weeks we had slept under the stairs or out in the shelters as merciless flying machines crossed over Muswell Hill. It would take too much space to relate our misfortunes, suffice to say we all had suffered enough.

How we got tickets for the train remains a mystery. There was a ban on travel – no homeward sailing from the Mainland and only a distance of sixty miles from London. We arrived in Manchester at 12.30 a.m.having missed our connection at Crewe. The other passengers, mostly Army and Navy personnel, disappeared quickly leaving us girls standing on an empty platform in the middle of a city were all transport ceased at 11.00pm.

Una remembered that her mother had sent a Christmas card every year to an Uncle Frank who lived in Blackley. We were rather tentative about turning up on the this man’s doorstep but decided we had no option. Listening to our conversation, an elderly lady porter interrupted. ‘ Not tonight dears, you will have to do with the night shelter.’

She walked with us to the entrance of the shelter and we followed her up a bare stone stairway. We paid one shilling each for a bed and were shown into a long stone covered room, much like a dormitory. The four of us occupied one cubicle sitting on our cases and hoping we would still be alive in the morning. We thought of home and how arrogant we had been when we had been cautioned about our undertaking. It was the worst night of my life. We were offered numerous swigs from bottles of what we presumed to be wine. When we refused we were admonished for ‘ being too good for the likes of us’

We left at six a.m. It was almost dawn. After a wash in the station washroom and as it was Sunday, like good convent girls we looked for a church. We sat at the back, noting that it was full of soldiers. A priest was delivering a sermon in what we took to be Polish. In the comfort of the church, knowing that here we were safe, we all fell asleep.

I was awakened by an old Priest shaking my shoulder. He asked were we were going so early in the morning. Una told him we were heading for Blackley and asked him if by any chance he knew a Dr Frank McGlade. ‘ Is it Frank you’re looking for? Sure I know him well. Doesn’t half of Manchester know Frank.’ Within the hour we were driving up to Old Road, Blackley and into the motherly arms of a silver- haired Scottish lady. Dr.McGlade was friendly but a little distant. Next morning we were quizzed about leaving London. After hearing our story, he rose from the table and rang the authorities in the Grosvenor hotel in London. They admitted that the two of us had been overlooked and that they had tried to contact us to see if we were safe.

It was then that the stern Irishman who had fought in India became a second father to four exhausted Irish girls. We were unable to travel home so we were offered accommodation with this lovely couple and we set about finding jobs. As I had been a law secretary back home I began work with Howard Pink and Co. Solicitors.

It was November or December before the ban on travel was lifted. We immediately applied for tickets but with the demand out weighing the supply we had to spend Christmas in Manchester. In the first week of 1945 we sailed for home. Ironically we were treated as ‘ heroines.’ Only our families were told the true story of our wild adventure. Letters were censored in those days so they never knew the truth until we arrived home.

Three months later an advert appeared in the now defunct Northern Whig looking for secretaries for the BBC in Belfast. I was interviewed and three weeks later received a letter asking me to present myself at the BBC in London. This time my mother insisted that my brother accompanied me to make sure that both my job and my accommodation were secure. I spent four and a half wonderful years in the Drama Department of the B.B.C. in Broadcasting House, but that is another story. I was also on the Mall in front of Buckingham Palace on VJ day. There was much laughter and singing as the country celebrated being at peace once again.

Ann Allan: Memories No. 17 The Wedding

Posted on 18/08/201518/08/2023 by Chatter

On the 18 August 1970 the day before the wedding, I had recovered sufficiently from my attack of jaundice to go ahead and get married. I thought I was ok about the ceremony being in Belfast, but on that morning contemplating the fact that I couldn’t leave to get married from my childhood home I was overcome with grief. Sitting at the breakfast table bawling my eyes out my mother thought I was having second thoughts about the wedding. I think it was a build up, of all that had happened coming up to the big day. I reassured her that all was ok, it was just an attack of nerves. I had to head for Belfast in the early afternoon and I had also to make sure that I had everything I needed with me. I couldn’t just hop back to Rostrevor. We had a ‘viewing the presents night’ the previous night and due to the generosity of my guests I had enough tea sets, toasters and Pyrex casseroles to open my own store. Well before the days of Ikea. I also had some beautiful pieces of Waterford Crystal all of which remain intact to this day.

There was no hen-do. They weren’t the done thing in those days but there was a stag night. It had taken place in the Rose and Crown on the Ormeau Road a few nights earlier. Thankfully I wasn’t there to witness the aftermath which I believe was quite ‘lively.’ The groom and his best man JT slept over in a friends flat and I believe had breakfast in the nearby Wellington Park Hotel. No nerves there.
The morning of the wedding, Wednesday 19 August was warm and sunny. There was only myself and my two bridesmaids in the flat. Unlike today’s brides, there was no hairdresser, no make up artist and no spray tan. I applied my own makeup and you would have hardly noticed that the whites of my eyes were still slightly yellow. 😀 The flowers arrived on time. The cars were at the front door. All I needed was my dad. He arrived in the nick of time with my little sister. An army checkpoint had delayed him. I came downstairs to the front door. The little old lady from the flat downstairs was the only one there to see me on my way. I know if we had been at home the villagers would have been out to see the bride departing.

The city had been quiet for a few weeks. Rubber bullets had been fired for the first time at the beginning of August. The British Home Secretary had threatened to impose direct rule if agreed reform measures were not carried out. Sound familiar? Not much has changed in 48 years. Hard to believe.
As we made our way up the Crumlin Road to the Holy Cross Church at Ardoyne we were escorted by two army Saracens out on patrol. In my wildest imagination I hadn’t anticipated having an escort to the church, especially from the army. When I stepped out of the car, Gordon’s Uncle Billy was waiting with his cine camera. Billy and his wife Chrissie were the only two of the Scottish contingent to brave the situation and travel to Belfast. Not sure whether it was the fact that Gordon had succumbed to the charms of a Catholic that put them off or the situation in Belfast but the Allan side was under- represented. However thanks to Billy the wedding was recorded for posterity and I’m going to let you have a look.

As I tried to say my wedding vows I teared up and it was obvious to the congregation I was very emotional. After all we had been through we were finally here. My little sister who was kneeling behind burst into tears and had to be consoled by one of the officiating priests. I learned afterwards that my wedding caused controversy within the clergy in Ardoyne. Why? Because Fr. Marcellus gave communion, both bread and wine, to Gordon. It was unknown in those days for a Protestant to receive communion and some were not happy about it. I think it confused the congregation even more. Some must have been wondering what foot he actually kicked with. God knows what Granny Fallis, a card-carrying Baptist must have made of it but the old girl said nout and appeared to enjoy the day.

The reception was lovely. Everyone enjoyed their meal of dover sole, lamb and raspberries in Curaçao. Not together of course. Everyone but me, that is. I still couldn’t eat and had to be content with an omelette. There was no after party. To entertain the guests my lovely cousin Siubhán played the harp beautifully. No disco, no dancing and no late night.

Gordon had been treated to drinks all afternoon and by 6 pm he was ‘rightly’ I decided it was time to leave. My going away outfit was made by my mother in law. A dress with a jacket. She was a wonderful dressmaker. As I was leaving one of my aunts came over to say goodbye. ‘ We’ll be praying for you’ she said. I pictured the guests falling on their knees and offering a decade of the rosary after we left.

We were leaving on the midnight flight to London that evening. Yes there was one from Aldergrove in those days. It cost £5 for a return ticket. We waited in my aunt’s house on the Glen Road where Gordon got something to help sober him up. I didn’t mind flying then but I was a bit nervous and wondered if it was an omen when lightning hit the plane on the way over. We arrived in London after two in the morning. By the time we got to our hotel on the Cromwell road it was nearly three. To say the hotel was underwhelming would be an understatement. There was no lift and our room was on the third floor. No en-suite and the room was basic to say the least. But the next morning we discovered that there was a coloured TV in the lounge and we’d never seen one before. We were very impressed and wondered if we would ever have one ourselves. We spent a few days sight-seeing and went to see Paint your Wagon in the cinema at Leicester Square.

'Oh, those are just for show. We don't have electricity.'

On day three we headed for the train at Victoria Station. We were going to Calais on the hovercraft from Dover and then by coach to Ostend. That was a strange experience. We were flying along on the top of the waves but couldn’t see out. We were strapped into our seats and weren’t allowed to move for the 30 mins. With a lot of others, we piled on to a coach that would take us to Ostend. The driver called out the names of the passengers to make sure we were all there. As I had booked in my maiden name that was the one he read out. It was 1970 and the looks we got were hilarious. We both looked very young which added to the interest of our fellow passengers.

Ostend was probably an unusual choice for a honeymoon but it was picturesque and I loved it. We traveled into Holland for a day and the weather was lovely. We also visited a beer festival which featured the ‘dancing waters’ Don’t ask! The trip to Ostend cost £15 each and that included transport and hotel !

The honeymoon was soon over and we headed home. Northern Ireland was shrouded in autumn mists when we arrived home. That was 53 years ago, I’m not sure it has totally emerged from them yet.

Ann Allan: Disillusioned

Posted on 06/08/201528/04/2021 by Chatter

Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.

Robert Kennedy

I’m slowly becoming one of the disinterested and disassociated voting public. I can see now why people don’t vote but what I can’t see is why the people who vote, vote for the people they vote for. ( Take your time you’ll get there).

We hear the old adage you get what you vote for and unfortunately we do. But is there any choice? The same old faces reappear at election time. They trot out the same old cliches and those who get out and vote, vote for yesterdays men and women. We listen day in and day out to their arguments, their whataboutery and their archaic and outmoded beliefs. They quote in some cases from the bible, using the ‘good book’ to justify their beliefs. Hard luck if you’re not a believer. How many times have you also heard ‘ the vast majority believe such and such’ No we bloody don’t. We are a mixed society and becoming more secular in our make up. If you are going to quote the vast majority I need figures, statistics to back up what you say.

We are verging on a stagnant society. Some want to move on, some want to stay in the past. We seem to take one step forward and ten steps back. I have young grandchildren. They know nothing about the troubles apart from what they study at school or have heard from listening to the family reminiscing as to what it was like growing up in the 70s and 80s. It could be the Boer war being talked about because it was not their ‘war.’ It was our ‘war.’ It is in the past and our grandchildren want to live in the present and look forward to the future. I do too.

To those who lost family and are waiting for the perpetrators to be caught it’s probably not going to happen, albeit in a small number of cases. I’ve heard some discuss the question as to whether victims perpetuate their victimhood? I think that depends on the person. Many of us go through life without any major tragedies in our lives but there are those who will suffer. Those who do suffer a tragedy can deal with it in one of two ways. They can let the perpetrator/s ruin their lives permanently and be a victim or they can decide not to let the perpetrator win and take away anymore of their quality of life. They can accept what has happened and move on. The reality is that while victims are waiting for justice life is passing them by. The joy of living is removed from their lives and they relive over and over again events that are in the past.

We have been told that there is little hope of bringing perpetrators to book. Can victims accept that in their case it may not happen? Can they put the past behind them and learn to enjoy life again with the acceptance that they may never get the justice they are seeking? I would like to see a line drawn under the past. I would like to see compensation paid to all victims to help us move forward. This would not include victim makers but those who were maimed or those families who lost a family member. I would like this to happen so that my children and grandchildren can break free from the past. I dont want them paying the price for a war that was nothing to do with them and one that they don’t even remember.

I would also like to see the number of terms a politician can serve restricted to two terms. It works for the American presidency so why not here? That way maybe we could freshen up the faces that we can vote for and that might help weed out those who are in politics for the wrong reasons. We wouldn’t then be stuck with them untill they fall of their perch.

I know there will be many who will disagree with me but that’s all right. We are all entitled to our opinions and that’s mine. We are struck in the past celebrating events that are long gone. Continually looking back and it’s not as if we learn from continually looking back, it just breeds another generation who can’t get past the past.

C’mon people, it’s time to think of our children and future generations. Don’t leave them with our legacy of the past.

Ann Allan: Memories No 16. The Best Laid Plans…

Posted on 03/08/201518/08/2023 by Chatter

So the wedding was moving from the country to the big smoke. Ok, Belfast. But there were a lot of pea soupers in those days. Some nights the fog/smog was so bad that you could see little in front of you. However I digress. The focus had shifted and new plans had to be made. The new church had been booked as had the new hotel but that was it. In those days deposits were unusual and so cancelling the original hotel hadn’t been a problem. ( If you haven’t read Memories 15 you won’t have a clue what I’m on about! )

Ann Allan: Memories No 15: Public and Personal Turmoil

The original hotel I had picked for my reception, Ballyedmond Castle Hotel was raised to the ground by a firebomb left by the IRA in 1979. I was so sorry that I hadn’t been able to bring my guests there. Rostrevor was minus another hotel yet again, the Great Northern Hotel also having been destroyed by a firebomb in 1978. My sister in law had her wedding in the Great Northern. Such a beautiful setting, backed by the woods and the mountains and sitting by the edge of the sea. What a waste! Today fifty years later Rostrevor has no hotel, though plans have been drawn up and awaiting investors. The destruction of two well-loved hotels didn’t bring us any closer to a United Ireland. But I’m digressing again.
At the beginning of July the wedding preparations were put in motion for the second time. Invitations were printed and sent out. Most guests were surprised at the venue but didn’t comment.

With my parents living in Rostrevor, a good two hours drive in those days from Belfast, it was left to me to make most of the arrangements. I was given the name of an organist who, if I remember rightly, lived in Brompton Park. We had no transport in those days so we made our way up the Crumlin road on a bus. Thankfully it was a peaceful day and we were lucky to get there and back without any trouble. We picked a few hymns. Panis Angelicus is the only one I remember. I would walk up the aisle to Handel’s Largo and we would walk down to Mendelson’s Wedding march.

Photos were next. There was a photographer in Church Lane that I had passed many times so he was duly booked. There was little discussion as to what photos should be taken and as a result there was not one photo taken in the church, apart from signing the register. The photographer was unused to photographing in a Catholic Church and was unaware of protocol. I laughed later when Fr.Marcellus said that he could have stood on his shoulders to get a good photo if he had wanted.

On Friday 3rd June 1970 a curfew was imposed on the Falls road. This was to last 24 hours while the Army carried out searches looking for weapons. Five civilians were killed. The curfew was broken by women from Andersonstown marching into the area with supplies.

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Meanwhile I was getting on with my wedding plans but fate seemed to be playing its part. Gordon had been complaining of not feeling well. He had a very sore throat and felt generally unwell. He was perspiring at night so much so that the bed needed changing every night. He was diagnosed as having glandular fever. Unfit to look after himself ( he was so weak ) and with his parents away on holiday for two weeks, my mum accepted the role of carer and Gordon moved into my family home. My mum had to look after him for the fortnight and it looked as if he would not be fit enough to get married.

However, totally on my own in Belfast and being the eternal optimist I carried on with the arrangements. There was a flower shop opposite the Europa Hotel. We chose fresh sweet-pea head bands for the bridesmaids and my little sister was to carry a ball made up of sweet-pea. I chose white and yellow roses for my bouquet. I wrote to Gordon every day telling him how the plans were going but there was one event I didn’t mention.

I was in my flat one evening when I got a shout from one of my flat mates that I had a visitor. He was at the front door. I went downstairs to find an old friend waiting for me. He said that he heard that I was getting married. He asked me to reconsider. I laughed and asked why I would do that. To this day I’m not sure exactly what was said but I know the gist was that he loved me, always would and that I should marry him. I told him I was very flattered but Gordon was the one for me and the wedding would be going ahead. I didn’t see him again for another 7 years. Didn’t think it was what G needed to know at that time but I told him later.

On August 11 1970 Two Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) officers were killed by the I.RA. when they set off a booby trap bomb planted in a car near Crossmaglen.

Two weeks to go to the wedding. Time to go with the parents to Dunadry Inn to finalise the menu. The cost of the menu was two guineas. Guineas were faded out after the introduction of decimalisation in 1971. There were 100 guests and this menu was one of the dearer ones. I returned there on my thirty-fifth wedding anniversary with the menu but they were unable to replicate it for the same price.

Transport had to be arranged to take the guests from Rostrevor to Belfast and then onto the hotel. Not everyone had a car in those days but those that had cars offered lifts and the local taxi firm had all its taxis booked for the day. It was then that it dawned on me that with all my arrangements and distractions I hadn’t ordered any cars to take the bridal party to the ceremony so fingers crossed I set off to find a firm with the date free. Wilton cars on the Crumlin Road came up trumps and a ‘ princess limousine ‘ was duly booked. A call to Ormo bakery on the Ormeau Road guaranteed that a cake would be delivered to the hotel on the day before the wedding.

Flat hunting was also a priority. We wanted something unfurnished and I was lucky after scanning the Belfast Telegraph night after night to find a suitable ground floor flat in Wolseley Street. For £28 a month we would get one bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. There was, at that stage, no mention of the sitting tenants that inhabited our new home. But we learned to live with them –mice! The only piece of furniture we had was a bed ( we had our priorities right ). It had been standing in the hall of my flat and as soon as the deal was done it was carried by four male friends from Fitzroy Avenue to Wolseley street. Gordon was getting his strength back and it looked as if nothing could stop us now.

In 1970 I had to resign from my job in the Civil Service and reapply for it again. I had about 10 days from resigning to the wedding day so on my leaving day a party was held in a local hostelry. I had been on antibiotics for some infection or other and didn’t realise that drink and the pills don’t mix. I woke up the next morning with yellow eyes, sick as a dog and my parents arrived to take me home. Jaundice was the diagnosis!!! Bed rest was recommended. The wedding was once again in jeopardy.