The recent desecration of a memorial on the Newtownards Road brought out the armchair detectives. A rush to blame the other side for the destruction. What I saw was a lone figure on a bicycle on a mission. What his/ her reasons were for this act of stupidity was not obvious. Nor was it obvious where the perpetrator had come from. Notwithstanding, those on the loyalist side blamed the Short Strand and those on the Nationalist side blamed the Newtowards Rd community themselves.
Why is there this rush to blame and cry foul? Why try to stigmatise a whole community for the actions of a few? Do those in the loyalist community really believe that the residents of Short Strand had a secret vote? That they all supported the motion for an idiot on a bicycle to go to the Newtownards Road and wreck a memorial. Likewise do the residents of Short Strand really believe that the whole community in that area hatched a plan to wreck a memorial just so ‘themuns’ would get the blame?
I’m not saying that it wasn’t the case that one or two members of these communities did actually do it and with the intention to cause trouble but it wasn’t the entire community. Most people want to live and let live. Most people want to get on with life. So when we start blaming without all the facts then the seed for mistrust is sown.
You can see it around you every day, especially on Twitter. The actions of one or two idiots has the usual suspects out ready to judge. You are playing into the hands of those who carry out these deeds. They maybe get their kicks out of wrecking things or they may have an agenda to cause more tension so please in future wait for the police to do their job and find the criminals before you rush to judgement.
Ann Allan: How to Stay Faithful to Facebook while Having an Affair with Twitter.
I suppose it all started when I discovered Skype. Suddenly I could communicate with relations I hadn’t seen for years. It took a while for me to realise why I hadn’t communicated with them for years. We had little in common. As a result I sat making small talk before announcing , sorry have to go, somebody at the door. Ok, so it was midnight here and morning in Australia, but I hoped they wouldn’t notice. The novelty with Skype soon wore off. I became restless. When a friend introduced me to Facebook I was ready for something new. The attraction wasn’t instant. I dabbled a little.
Facebook wanted to know a lot of personal information and being a little coy I decided that my name and an outline photo was as far as I was prepared to go. I openly mocked those who had succumbed to Facebook’s charms and thought them very fickle. However it didn’t take long to seduce me and so my love affair with Facebook began. I changed my profile picture many times to get it right. Decided in the end on a picture painted by my six year old granddaughter. A cheery black haired girl with no nose. A bit like Snow White. Without an actual photo I could still pretend I was young and attractive. Deceitful I know but hey ho! That little red light at the top of my timeline had my heart beating faster. It surely knew how to get to me. The anticipation that I had a message or that someone wanted to be my friend was so exciting. I did try to ignore it but the flesh is weak and with the bribe that I could gossip, see silly photos and endless words of wisdom I warmed to its charms.
After a short flirtation I was in love, well at least I thought I was. Always one to take an interest in what’s trending, I became aware of Twitter. Subliminally to start with. TV programmes now gave out Twitter handles. Never take off, I said. Too complicated, I thought. Oh, ok I’ll have a look, I conceded. And that’s when my relationship with Facebook began to suffer. I was more and more attracted to Twitter. Twitter offered excitement. New people. New followers. I could follow people who weren’t friends and people I thought I would never meet followed me. When Eamonn Holmes and Marian Keyes became followers my life was complete. They would never have been my friend on Facebook. There are of course downsides. . No one says nasty things on Facebook. We are all loved up. Twitter, however, like the jealous lover can be hurtful, spiteful or just do the huffing bit. I put something out there, bare my soul and Twitter just ignores me. Then I feel spurned and return to Facebook to seek reassurance that I’m still loved. There I cringe over some of the sugary posts giving out advice like modern day Nietzsche’s but like them anyway so as not to offend my other love.
Tension is high in the evenings. Hubby is jealous of my flirtations with social media. We use the same email address. He has an iPad and iPhone. I have an iPad and iPhone and when a tweet, email or Facebook alert comes in, it’s a bit like the 1812 overture. All the alerts are different and they all come in at intervals of a nano second.
“Feck off ” he mutters, as I relish the fact that one of my lovers is calling. So to whom shall I stay faithful? I think I’ll string them both along. They fulfil different needs and I am loathe to let either go. Just have to make sure they don’t find out about each other and I’m sure Skype would have me back.
Ann Allan: Maybe I’ll get some wisdom teeth
I had been attending the dentist for years, having my check up every six months, and hadn’t needed any dental work. So it came as a bit of shock when, with my mouth wide open and unable to speak, the dentist informed me that I had receding gums. ‘ Wah dos at ean’? I asked. Why does a dentist start talking to you when you can only answer in Swahili. Well I think you may need implants, he said, otherwise your teeth will become loose and eventually fall out. This will make your chin drop and you will be unable to chew. Pictures of an ugly old hag were floating in front of my face. Didn’t take long to discover I was looking at my reflection in the dentist’s light but with the thought of eating being a problem I panicked. Implants? Was I going to look like Ryland Clark? Would I ever be able to speak properly again and what was the pain going to be like on a scale of one to ten? I had noticed a few teeth a bit loose. I was still able to munch my way through a steak but I had to face the truth, I was old and I needed new teeth. At least things had changed. False teeth had moved into the twenty first century and it was no longer necessary to have dentures that you kept in a glass by the bedside.
An appointment was made with a well known clinic in Belfast. The waiting room was so plush that I thought I might actually book in and spend a few days there. This is going to be pricey I thought. I had my consultation with a very nice dentist. I was then taken for an X-ray. It was a small room and I had something like a bit put in my mouth. I had to bite on it and an outer ring revolved around my head taking a photo of my gums. In a few minutes the X-Ray was up in front of me and the dentist was confirming that my bone density was decreasing and my only option was to have seven teeth removed. There were then two options. One was eight implants or two implants and a bridge. I was advised that a dental plan would be sent setting out the options and the price.
A couple of days later the plan arrived and for the price of the first option I could have bought a reasonably sized family car. For the second option, a smaller sized car. The family could envisage seeing their inheritance in my beautiful new set of teeth. However I conveniently shoved the letter in a drawer and put it to the back of my mind. I’d think about if later.
On my next routine visit my dentist enquired how my assessment had gone. Er fine, I muttered, embarrassed by the fact that I was procr… procras… putting off the decision. I was also having a few niggling pains and the realisation that I couldn’t put it off any longer was beginning to sink in. By this time I’d managed to mislay the original letter so I requested a copy. This arrived followed by a telephone call from the clinic, by the end of which I had agreed to go back and see the consultant. This time I brought the hubby so that he could ask questions that I might forget. He was more impressed with the large wall mounted TV in the waiting room. After a chat with the nice dentist I agreed that option two was the least traumatic. Ok so I’d be badly bruised around the neck and chin area. After my holiday from hell I could cope with a bit of bruising, couldn’t I? It was arranged that I would come in in a few days time and have a scan. This was to make sure that I had enough bone density to put in the two implants.
The night before the scan I didn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. I phoned next morning cancelling the scan. A letter had also arrived that morning asking me to sign my acceptance of the procedure. Unfortunately it gave the downsides as well as the benefits and the imagination went into overdrive.
Knowing I had to make a decision I did what I thought I would do if I was having work done to my house. I’d get a second opinion. I contacted another well known private clinic and explained what I was looking for. They quoted the price of a nice day out at a spa, plus lunch, for the consultation. I thought that was a bit steep but I assumed that the assessment would be on the same basis as the first clinic. The price there for a consultation had been more like the price of an intensive manicure and half the price of this clinic. Instead after a brief sweep around my mouth with a gloved hand I was told what I already knew. I needed implants. It lasted half an hour and there was to be no follow up recommendation with quotes. Big son kept trying to face time me during the consultation as I had forgotten to turn my phone off. This was embarrassing to say the least, as every time I cancelled the call, he tried again. Six times in all. The consulting room was unbearably hot and I was realising I had made a big mistake. I paid the exorbitant consultation fee with a heavy heart and left feeling like a sixty five year old woman who just been trying to put off the inevitable. So that’s where I am at the moment. I need to plan a six month period in the near future when it won’t matter if I have no teeth, temporary teeth, two implants, two implants plus bridge and learning to talk ‘ proper’ again in more or less that order. Hubby can’t suppress his delight. No nagging for six weeks. I’ll let you know what happens..
Ann Allan September 2014.
Ann Allan: Memories No.1 Childhood
In 1949 George Orwell published 1984. Over 73 years later I have survived to see this dystopian novel become a reality.
In 1949 society was emerging from the aftermath of the second world war and it was an austere world with food rationing being part of every day life. Coupons were needed to purchase everyday items like butter and sugar and this led to black marketing when goods were purchased in the Republic of Ireland and smuggled across the border.
- On 3 May 1949 – The Parliament of the United Kingdom passed the Ireland Act guaranteeing the position of Northern Ireland as part of the United Kingdom as long as a majority of its citizens wanted it to be. The government also recognised the existence of the Republic of Ireland.
My parents married in 1947. My mother had recently returned from London where she worked in the BBC. I’m including her account of her time in England during the war as it makes interesting reading.
https://apvallan.com/2015/08/24/patricia-cole-the-arrogance-of-youth/
My dad was a Civil Engineer graduating from University College Dublin and during the war he had worked on preparing air strips for the Americans landing in Northern Ireland.
I came into this world on Valentine’s Day 1949. I weighed only 5lbs 5ozs and probably my mother didn’t need to push too much to introduce me to the world. However, I can’t have looked too healthy, as to be on the safe side I was baptised the next day. I was called Ann Patricia Valerie and I was born under the sign of Aquarius, the water carrier. Well that’s not strictly true. I was baptised Anne Patricia Valerie but the kids in school used to call me Annie so I knocked of the ‘e’. Annoys me even when I see it on prescriptions etc.
The river Ghan ran along the side of Peacefield, the house in Rostrevor where I was born and then made its way out into the nearby Carlingford Lough. Ironic, as I have always had a fear of water. I had been under the illusion for many years that my birth place was a cottage called Rose Cottage. But on a recent visit my delusions were shattered when I found out it was not actually a cottage, was in a state of decay and going to wreck and ruin. A check on my birth certificate confirmed it was called Peacefield. Rose Cottage was I suppose more romantic.
The house is still standing but we moved from there when I was two, to a large Victorian terraced house which was rented from the local parish. It looked over a large estate which belonged to the Bowes- Lyon family. My aunt, who was a nurse, looked after Miss Marriane Lyon, a second cousin of the Queen, and so I accompanied her on many occasions to the house that stood in the park. 
Unfortunately it was knocked down as it had fallen into disrepair. I believe the Queen mother and the present Queen and her sister Margaret visited the house and played in the grounds. It is now Kilbrony Park having been taken over by the local council. When we were young many beautiful Arab horses roamed the huge expanse of meadow. In spring the ground was covered in daffodils. It became our private playground as we grew up.
Many happy hours were spent exploring Kilbroney Park. Along with many rare and beautiful trees ( Rostrevor is often called the Riviera of the North because of its mild climate) Rostrevor is also home to the evergreen Holm Oak. The oak also known as ‘Old Homer ‘was nominated as Northern Ireland’s tree of the year. C.S. Lewis was inspired by the view and it is believed Narnia was the result. Every year girl guides and boy scouts would pitch their tents in the 
meadow. In the evenings my brothers and I would stand at the windows for hours watching them playing round the campfires and listening to the campfire songs. We did however feel sorry for them when it rained and they were mud to the elbows.
We lived near the sea and to find out if the tide was in or out all I had to do was stand at my front door. On summer mornings we would head off to the beach for the day unaccompanied, and we wouldn’t come home until we were hungry. I never went out of my depth and despite all those hours splashing around in the water I still can’t swim.
The house we moved into had been a boarding house run by two elderly sisters and each upstairs room had a bell which had been used to summon the servants from ‘below stairs’. Great fun to play with but a nightmare for Mum down in the kitchen. They were taken out during renovations which was a pity. My first memory in my new house was of almost flooding us out. Left to my own devices at about aged three and after the arrival of a new baby brother, I decided to wash myself. I pulled a small chair over to the hand basin in my Mum’s room, put in the plug and turned on both taps. I guess the overflow didn’t work because I can remember my Mum running out of the kitchen as the water flooded through the ceiling. Her first reaction was to run to a neighbour who happened to be the local constable. I thought he was coming for me but he quickly found the source of the water and a scared little girl. The chair I stood on was made by my grandfather, who was a carpenter and I still have it.
Four boys arrived over the next eleven years and I began to wonder if they were coming from somewhere in my mother’s bedroom. Every time she disappeared into that room with the local midwife another baby appeared. I was thirteen when my sister arrived and this was the first time I worked out where babies came from. Men were barred from the births in those days and were called in when the baby was delivered and was alive and kicking. Mothers were confined to bed for two weeks, unlike today when new mothers are discharged from hospital only 24 hours after giving birth. I also remember that after a birth my mother had to be churched. Until this archaic ceremony took place shortly after the birth, mothers were considered unclean. A sort of purification. It was done away with in the late sixties by the Catholic Church. When I look back on it now, the cheek of it, making women feel unclean because they were giving birth.
My father was a a favourite with the local children as we were one of the few houses with a fridge. Every weekend he would fill the ice maker with orange juice and then add sticks, resulting in home made lollipops after a couple of hours. A steady stream of youngsters would appear on the doorstep looking for a lolly. We were also subjected to National Health orange juice which was extremely sweet and that together with a daily spoonful of Virol ( a vitamin preparation based on malt extract), it’s no wonder dental decay was a big problem.
I remember at about the age of five getting our first television. It was an ugly-looking box, with a tiny screen and watching it was an ordeal. TVs in those days had a vertical hold and a horizontal hold. The horizontal hold was to control the picture from continual lilting to the side and the vertical hold was to stop the picture continually dropping off the screen. We got used to watching every programme 
through a snow storm. Reception was awful and for many years there was only one station. We sat in awe watching Muffin the Mule, a puppet horse on strings and a mad woman who played the piano and talked to said Muffin. Goodness! We were easily entertained. Muffin was followed by Bill and Ben, the Wooden Tops and Andy Pandy.
Nevertheless we had TV nights when the neighbours came in to see something special, had something to eat and money was raised for the local church. As I said the reception was terrible but TV was a new phenomenon in Rostrevor and the neighbours were enthralled.
We had a happy childhood. We didn’t need xboxes or Playsations. We built pretend houses, we skipped, roller skated, explored and read comics. We attended the matinee in the local cinema on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday was Bunty and Judy for me and the Victor and the Hotspur for the boys. Comics in case you haven’t heard of them. Food was wholesome but adventurous. Meals out at an hotel were a treat. There was no central heating in most houses in the fifties. Many winter mornings I woke up to find ice had formed on the bedroom window. When we were sick, a coal fire was lit in our bedroom. Getting dressed was an ordeal. We tried to do it while still under the blankets. No duvets in those days.
Living in a terrace of eight houses we had an eclectic mix of neighbours. Next door was the local headmaster of the boys primary school and his wife who was the headmistress of a local country primary school in a town land called Drumreagh.
On the other side was the district nurse and midwife. Extremely handy for delivering my four brothers. Further down was the local Methodist minister’s Manse and next door to him the local policeman. In a detached house on the same road was the local doctor. In those days the local doctor knew you and your family and all the family history. Home visits were normal and happened without even a request. No appointments were necessary at the surgery you just sat in a queue and waited your turn. Many occasions saw me running with one of the younger ones, blood dripping from somewhere in order for the doctor to do a quick stitch. My mother couldn’t stand the sight of blood .
I attended the local school. We were taught by nuns. I can still remember my first day when I sat beside a boy called George Cahill. I loved being at school. We wrote on boards with chalk as we hadn’t graduated to ink pens. When we graduated to ink pens, fingers were constantly inky and blots on exercise books were common. Outside toilets with half doors were the order of the day. Can you imagine it in the middle of winter? The water in the toilet was frozen, the toilet paper was Izal, that’s the shiny sort. There was central heating in the school but why were those crates of milk always set beside the radiators? I can still taste that warm milk. Ugh.
My Dad had a Ford or an Austin, not sure which, and many times we travelled with him to Dundalk to smuggle home sugar and butter which were still rationed in the North. We thought it was a great game and I’m sure the customs officer who asked ‘Anything to declare?’ knew we were sitting on something. On one occasion while on our foray for food, my brother leaned on the back door of the car. There were no safety locks in those days. He must have flipped the handle because he suddenly disappeared out the door. Luckily the car wasn’t going to fast. ‘Dad, Dad,’ I shouted, as I looked out the back window to see my brother lying on the road. Seems hysterically funny now but not so then. After the once over in Daisy Hill hospital he was released with a slight concussion.
On a final note bearing in mind what is happening in 2017 the twelfth ( Orange Order Parade) was held in Rostrevor on one occasion. Shopkeepers of every denomination had their stalls out selling Smyth’s lemonade and homemade sandwiches to those marching and those watching the parade. Our local milkman, an Orangeman, delivered the milk the night before, apologising profusely for the early delivery. We were too young to know what the Orange Order was and what it stood for. In those days most people seemed to come out to just to watch the bands. No bonfires and very little, if any, trouble. My lovely granny who owned a pub in Camlough was visiting on that occasion. As the parade passed our garden she waved and was acknowledged by a lot of the marchers as many were her customers. I remember thinking she was like the Queen. I loved my Granny and I used to visit her often and stay with her in Camlough. She would also come and stay with us in Rostrevor. I was devastated when she died.
The fifties were a quiet time but we did have a taste of what was to come. One night a loud explosion shook our house. A bomb had blown up a U.T.A bus in the nearby depot.
Kilbroney Park, Rostrevor
CHATTER 