CHATTER

Ann Allan: Memories No. 6 Lost in France

Posted on 12/03/201517/12/2022 by Chatter

I awoke on my first morning in France tired from lack of sleep and unsure where I was. It was a bit overwhelming for a naive seventeen year old. The sound of a train chugging near to my window reminded me fairly quickly. I opened the wooden shutters to be greeted with the most idyllic garden bathed in warm sunlight. Those of you who have been to France will know what I mean, when I say, that it didn’t smell or feel like home. It was … well it was…. French. I dressed quickly dusting myself in Morney’s sandalwood talc. I only have to get a whiff of sandalwood all these years later, to be transported back to that room in St. Marcellin. Breakfast was served in the garden. Fresh croissants and a sweet cake were breakfast fare. What appeared to be a large soup bowl was put in front of me but instead of soup, there was tea. I hesitated unsure what to do. The rest of the family drank the tea straight from the bowl and I with some amusement did too. We would not
do that at home, I thought.

My two weeks in St.Marcellin were spent absorbing French life. Many things were different. My French friend openly lit up her cigarette and smoked in front of her parents. That would never have been allowed back home in 1966. Over the two weeks I experienced French life and was taken to the places of interest in the area. To the amphi theatre in Vienne, to Romans with its beautiful St. Bernard church, Pont en Royans with its three castles and it’s hanging houses clinging to the cliffs, Valence, with its colorful history. A beautiful part of France bordering on the edge of the Vercors national park. I returned there many years later with my own family

After two weeks we packed up and went to Grenoble where we stayed overnight in an apartment belonging to the family. A shopping spree in one of the department stores helped deplete my pocket-money but I wanted to bring something to the family back home. We packed up once again and headed for a Citroen CV parked outside. To my amazement the 18 year-old sister took the steering wheel and we set off. For a while it was fine but then we began to ascend. The roads became like country lanes and the sheer drop below was terrifying. The two sisters and their brothers started singing songs one of which I suspect was a French version of ‘Now is the Hour.’ I covered my eyes and concentrated on trying not to be sick.

When we arrived in St.Bonnet I was white as a sheet and unable to greet the relatives who rushed out to meet ‘ la petite Irlandaise.’ As they were about to give me the traditional kiss on each cheek I threw up. The combination of the drive and the lack of food had made me decidedly queasy. I must explain that I had not adapted to the French menu and was living on Rice Krispies and boiled eggs. I had been taken to the nearest shop in desperation and in the hope I might see something I could eat. Thankfully cereals had reached France in 1966. I had also discovered that the family stored a huge number of chocolate bars in the food cupboard. When I woke up in the middle of the night starving, I would tiptoe down and help myself. Imagine my embarrassment when on one occasion, I turned to go back to bed, salivating from the chocolate, and there was Madame B standing at the kitchen door. I muttered something in English, made a few gestures about being hungry and beat a hasty retreat. The house also had a cellar filled with cheeses. The smell was ..well, it wasn’t very pleasant and I dreaded when I was asked to go down and bring some up to the kitchen. I have to admit I was getting homesick at this stage. I consoled myself by listening to Adamo on an old fashioned record player. Adamo was top of the french hit parade and I loved his haunting melodies. I still have the L.P. I bought back then.

Lack of communication was a big problem. I was now receiving letters from home. It had taken all this time for them to reach me; such was the speed of the postal service in France in the sixties. My family were on holidays in Bunbeg, Co.Donegal, one of my favourite places and I was quite jealous. I had no money left. This was remedied by a rare phone call home when my dad asked Madame B to give me some money and he would refund it. With the money I went to the local hairdresser in the village and had my beautiful long auburn hair cut short. Not sure whether it was the altitude that affected my brain. However, what I had done hit home when the hairdresser handed me my hair tied in a ponytail. My mum had to look twice when the bus from the airport pulled up at the Gresham Hotel.

I saw plenty of the Hautes Alpes region. The skiing resorts of Orcieres and Merylette were close by and Gap was the nearest big town. I had by now got used to the narrow roads. My favourite trip was the Route de Napoleon that took us though Aix-en Provence, passing the many fields of vines and culminating in my first sight of the Côte D’ Azur and the Mediterranean sparkling in the sunshine. A bit ironic that the watch that had given me such a fright during my first night in France was stolen from the car as we bathed in the Mediterranean. I was taken by the family to Grenoble where the watch was replaced by a much more expensive one than the one that had been stolen!

Though I enjoyed most of my time in France I was glad to be home. As I headed home at the end of July, little did I know that the month of August 1966 would determine my future.

Ann Allan: Memories No.5 From Ballycastle to France

Posted on 11/03/201511/09/2023 by Chatter

Nineteen sixty-five wasn’t a great year. I got awful results in my Senior Certificate. The equivalent of GCE. It was decided I would repeat some of the subjects and try to improve my marks. So it was with a heavy heart I returned to school to have another go. The summer had been great. We spent our holidays in Ballycastle and at 15 years of age there was only one thing on our minds. Yes, you guessed it, boys. My friend whom I’ll call M, so as not to embarrass her, came with the family and we stayed in a house belonging to my aunt. Donovan was popular at the time and we had bought ourselves a denim cap each similar to the one that he wore at the time. Flavoured lipstick was also en vogue, caramel, peppermint and strawberry. We must have looked like two prats as we paraded along the streets of Ballycastle but we thought we were gorgeous and it wasn’t long before we attracted attention from a couple of local youths. As my parents did not approve of boyfriends there was a lot of skullduggery and subterfuge going on so that we could meet our new beaus. Luckily there was a carnival that summer and a large tent was set up for dancing in the evening. We were permitted to go but had to be home by 10 p.m. Sonny and Cher were in the hit parade with “ I Got You Babe” and I have bitter-sweet memories of the song.

A week or so into our holiday we arranged to meet the boys and decided to go for a walk to Bonamargy Friary. Well you can imagine there was a wee bit of courting in the friary so we ended up being late returning home. Imagine our horror as we walked hand in hand back to Ballycastle to see my father’s car driving towards us. It stopped and we were told to get in. There was little chance to say goodbye. A decision was made to take us two delinquents home. The holiday was over. I never saw him again, but apparently he saw me in the back of our car as we drove through the town on our way back home. We continued to exchange letters until someone else caught my eye. I later found out that he died running a marathon in Manchester.

Back at school things were boring. The only excitement was when one of the girls in the class revealed she had lost her virginity. Not so clever when she found out a few months later she was pregnant. A warning to us all. December came and it was time to organise our annual party. M was lucky enough to have a huge room in the loft of her house and we had been allowed to have a party there at New Year. Most were honoured to be on the invitation list and with that in mind I approached a handsome young man who went to the local protestant grammar school. He was standing at the bus stop wearing his school cap and scarf and after a lot of giggling with M, I went over to extend the invite. He looked at me and bluntly said ‘ no’. Taken aback and feeling embarrassed I muttered under my breath ” ‘ignorant sod’ His name was …..Gordon Allan.

The party was a huge success. We danced to the Beatles. Two albums, A Hard Day’s Night and Beatles for Sale were most popular. In the dark candle lit room ( the lights went up when a parent was on the prowl ) couples smooched to ‘If I Fell’ and ‘I call your name’. Ah the innocence!

The year dragged on and I couldn’t wait for the summer to come again. I was back redoing some of my subjects and I hated studying and I hated school. In April of 1966 I was giving the opportunity to go to France for a month in July. I begged the parents to let me go and they relented. An organisation run by Pére Du Roquais was organising an exchange trip for students from UK and Ireland with students from France. The excitement was tremendous. A month away from home, flying for the first time and the warm weather. I was picked to go to a family in St. Marcellin, a small town in the Rhône-Alpes. I would spend two weeks there and then two weeks in St-Bonnet-en-Champsaur in the Haute-Alpes. The daughter in the family would return home with me for a month. Clothes were bought without any concept of how warm it would be. I was nervous and excited at the same time. I remember vaguely that I wasn’t in a great mood. The usual stroppy teenager who didn’t want to listen to all the instructions that were coming my way. I was 16 and I knew it all. I couldn’t wait to get on the plane and be on my own, away from parental control. That was soon to change.

I set off from Dublin airport, my head reeling from all the things I wasn’t to do. Not sure why but it was thought appropriate in 1966 to travel in a grey wool suit and black gloves even though it was the beginning of July. Although I had never flown before I wasn’t afraid and I loved every minute of it. Goodness, how things change! I was new fangled with all the little bits and pieces served with lunch and didn’t want to waste the little packs of butter so I shoved them in my handbag. We flew over the Alps and the pilot told us we were at 32000 feet. I vowed to come home and apply to be an air hostess.

France St Bonnet-en Champsur

When we landed and I stepped out of the plane the heat hit me. It was 30 degrees and it was like walking out into a sauna. I was matched with my family and we headed off for our first destination. As we drove along in the car from the airport in Lyon I put my hand into my handbag to be met with a sticky, gooey mess. The butter packs had melted in the heat and everything was covered in runny butter including the gloves which had been earlier discarded. A great start to my first holiday abroad.

Homesick, boy was I homesick. I would have given anything to hear my dad shouting at me to listen to what he was saying. A few phrases in hesitant French did not constitute a conversation and nobody in the family spoke English. The French family comprised of a mum and dad, two girls and two boys. Even from the first hour or two I knew I was wasn’t going to gel with my exchangee. I didn’t recognise the food and when I tasted it I was not impressed. There was a strong smell of garlic and extremely mature cheese everywhere and I wondered if it would be possible to fly home the next day.

My bedroom was beside a railway line and trains ran to the south of France during the day and night. It was a large room with shutters, wooden floors and it smelt old. As it was dark I couldn’t see much outside so that would have to be left until the next morning. I couldn’t sleep and at one stage began to imagine that time was moving backwards. That could probably be explained by the fact that my watch was on upside down. The excitement had worn off. I drifted off into an uneasy sleep and wondered why I had ever thought this would be a good idea.

Ann Allan: Memories No 4

Posted on 09/03/201506/04/2026 by Chatter

6EF6D1FC-1FBD-4CF7-B59A-C5B51DC4E7C2 As I entered the sixties life was changing. I was still too young to appreciate how much. I still didn’t know where babies came from even though at eleven there was another addition to the family when my brother was born. My dad took us out for a drive and by the time we got home he had arrived. This ignorance lasted until I was almost fourteen when a precocious friend who was much mature than the rest of us informed us in great detail how babies were conceived. We reacted with disbelief. There was no way my parents indulged in such gross behaviour. However that turned out not to be true when my only sister arrived when I was thirteen.

The following year my maternal grandmother passed away. I was heart broken. I 9E61CFFA-A639-4464-9638-0F321CC164F7 loved her and as a child and spent time in her home in Camlough. She had been a widow for twenty odd years. When she died it was my first loss of someone close to me and I was horrified by the whole funeral and burial thing. Similarly my paternal grandmother was a widow and as a result I never knew either of my grandfathers. It seemed normal in those days and I’m just so glad that my grandchildren have known all four grandparents.

I had been at grammar school for almost two years at this time. I went to Our Lady’s grammar school in Newry having passed the eleven plus. It was a bus journey to get there and meant an early start in order to catch the bus to Newry. I became friends with an English girl from Liverpool who had come to live over here. We are still friends 54 years later. (She has sadly passed away since I wrote this ).Together we got into a lot of mischief. We were both rebellious and didn’t appreciate being told what to do. She was the first to have her ears DBE97F56-7862-4B69-9575-9ACA0D03CBA3 pierced and the first to go for a geometric Mary Quant hairstyle. Despite both of us being intelligent we were not studious so tended never to make it to the top of the class. However I excelled at debates and any occasions where I could argue against the status quo. I also had a vivid imagination and my essays were always interesting to say the least.

In 1962 we had the Cuban crisis. Being taught by nuns the rosary beads were produced and we sat at our desks waiting for… Well I’m not sure what, but it was frightening as the world was holding its breath unsure also as to what was going to happen. Luckily Russia backed down and we all breathed a sigh of relief. 11D2125B-02B9-4F6E-81D6-A606441445BF
I disliked most things about school and had little respect for many of the teachers. Our history teacher smelt of alcohol, our French teacher spent her time talking about golf and most were anything but inspiring. The one exception was the English teacher who awakened my interest in literature. She spoke with passion and talked to us as if we were adults and not children.

I scraped though junior certificate with average marks and no one was surprised. In fact the principal wrote on my results ‘Eh bien ma chere’ Most of my studying was done with a copy of Jackie hidden beneath my books. Jackie having replaced Bunty and Judy as my must have magazine.
When I was fourteen, for the third time, in my life I almost said good bye to this world. Walking with a friend at a local bathing place, called the slope, we decided to walk along a ledge during a full tide. As it was winter time I was wearing a heavy tweed coat. The tweed coat had been specially made by a Mrs Heidi who had a craft shop in the village. Halfway along the ledge I slipped and went into the water up to my neck. My friend tried to pull me from the water. However the tweed coat was now twice the weight and pulling me down. I was out of my depth, couldn’t swim and the water was freezing. All I could think of was that my mother was going to kill me for ruining the expensive coat. I grimly held on to the ledge as my friend pulled and hauled. Luckily a passer by glanced over the wall and quickly rushed to our assistance. Back on terra firma I had one of the longest walks of my life as I headed home, water dripping from everywhere. The coat had stretched so much with the water it was now around my feet. I do remember being told off but think there was much relief that things hadn’t been worse so the coat wasn’t mentioned but I think it needed altered as it was now much too long.

Busses played a huge part in my social life in the early sixties. I took a bus to and from school. That was where romance blossomed as all schools in the area used the same busses. It took at least half an hour to get to Newry and we picked up all the students in Warrenpoint on our way. Some of the busses came from Kilkeel. Childhood romances began and ended on the busses. When I was twelve my mum found a diary in which I had written ‘Terry has been my boyfriend for six months’. I was banned from seeing Terry and poor Terry was warned off by my dad. Another young man who had a huge crush was only able to show his affection by teasing me and pulling my hair. We are still friends fifty years later.

When I was fourteen I got my first summer job working in a Warrenpoint chemist. I got paid £3 per week and I loved it. I couldn’t wait to get into work in the mornings. Ten o’clock was tea time and my job was to pick the pastries from the bakery next store. How I loved that. I worked along side a real character, Uncle Charlie, as he was known to everyone. On one occasion a customer came into the shop asking for a packet of Durex. I hadn’t a clue what that was but as was the practice I headed for the drawer marked D ( it was a simple system in those days ). Unable to find it I shouted the length of the shop. ‘ Charlie, where do we keep the Durex?’ Any chatter in the shop stopped. I watched as Charlie told the now hugely embarrassed customer that we did not stock her requirements. This was followed by an even more embarrassed Charlie explaining to me that as this was a catholic shop we did not sell Durex or for that matter did we stock the pill. I went to my precocious friend who furthered my sex education with an explanation as to what a condom was. I was beginning to wonder if this sex thing sounded worth the effort.
After 6 weeks I headed for Belfast with my best friend and blew my wages in C&A‘s. I remember one of my purchases was a pink sponge petticoat. This was worn under a skirt to make it stick out. Made a change from the liberty bodice and the scapular. ( Catholics will know what a scapular was) Not sure that was a good buy. It was uncomfortable to sit on, extremely warm and impossible to wash. Twist dresses were also in fashion as were reefer jackets. But fashion was about to change and Mary Quant was influencing the change. The Beatles were influencing the pop charts. Every Sunday we recorded Pick of the

Pops on a large tape recorder that used large tapes and then played them over and over till my dad said ‘no more’ My friend had a record player and we bought our first single together. It was I think three shillings and four pence and it was Peter and Gordon’s ‘ Please lock me away’

Boys were becoming more interesting and much of our conversation was about the latest loves in our lives. Summers were spent hanging out on the roof of the baths at Warrenpoint. Radio Caroline played in the background as we sun bathed and enjoyed the banter. No drinks, no drugs but I hate to admit it a lot of smoking. We were unaware of the danger back in the sixties and we felt very sophisticated as we puffed on our Gold Leaf.

We had our own local pop group in Warrenpoint in the sixties. The T- Set who managed to play as a warm up to Dave Dee, Dozy. Beaky, Mick and Tich when they played in Banbridge.

Summer was over. Time to go back to school.

Ann Allan: Memories No 3 : School Lifel

Posted on 07/03/201501/04/2026 by Chatter

24966197-8745-4797-8CDE-81CC82F7068F

I went to a Catholic primary school. It was mixed for the first year and then the boys went to the school down the road. The nuns were strict and preached hell, fire and damnation. I remember going home on many occasions unable to sleep after some of the stories I was told. The most frightening one I remember was that at some stage the world would be plunged into darkness and Jesus would descend and pick out those who were good enough to go to heaven. You can imagine what it was like when there was a power cut and there were quite a lot of those in the fifties. For years I hated the dark and needed to sleep with a light.

I now understand how the Catholic Church managed to keep us in line, we were terrified.

On one occasion I brought my picture collection of famous ballet dancers into school. I brought pictures of dancers like Margot Fonteyn and Alicia Markova, only to have them confiscated by Sr Paul who deemed them immodest. They were wearing tutus!!! I never got them back and I’m still fuming.

The nuns obviously didn’t appreciate ballet. In those days they wore the full regalia, with only their face and hands visible. They had huge rosary beads dangling around their waists and the rattle of the beads warned us kids of a ‘nun incoming’

They were strict on discipline and unlike today’s children we did not challenge this authority.

My favourite memory of primary school was to do with food. I loved the school dinners especially the desserts. Different types of steamed puddings served with lashings of hot custard. I can still picture it as the lid was taken of the steel container used to transport it. The other memory was actually cooking. We used to go once a week to a cookery class where we learned the basics. I still make a mean scone. I used to experiment when I went home but the curried eggs were not particularly popular with the rest of the family (or me).

We lived close to the Rostrevor quarry which was behind the Great Northern Hotel. I hated the days when they were blasting. There was always a warning. A loud horn would go off and shortly after a huge explosion. I always had visions of a large rock coming through the roof but thankfully nothing untoward occurred. There had been stories of ghostly sounds coming from the quarry back in the 1920’s. Apparently heard by many residents of the village. The conclusion was that they were subterranean but I always got a little nervous as I headed up into the forest 🌳 to follow the many beautiful trails that led into the mountain. A quick look behind ensured nobody was following.

When I was about eight my dad bought me a bicycle. It was a BSA blue bicycle. Most evenings after my dad came home from work the two of us would go out cycling sometimes out as far as Killowen. There was little traffic in those days and it was safe to go out cycling on the main road. I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and the ability to move long distances under my own steam. The freedom my bicycle gave me was liberating. I’d fly up to the village to get messages freewheeling down the hill that crossed the Fairy Glen, getting up a speed to see how far I could get without having to start cycling again.

Playtime consisted of throwing bean bags, hoola hooping, hop scotch and games such as The Farmer Wants a Wife, In and Out of Stocky Bluebells and The Big Ships sailed through the Alley, Alleyo. We also had a collection of silk worms which we fed and watched to see if they produced any silk! Does anybody keep silkworms anymore? Seems like a strange thing to keep. I never did see any silk! But there were only two and I gather you need thousands to produce a tiny bit.

66584EAB-70A7-4E3E-89D2-F13AE4BD9065

As I was approaching my final year at primary school, there was an outbreak of tuberculosis in my class. Those unfortunate fellow students who contracted TB developed large lumps on the knee joints and in the neck. Once diagnosed, at least ten pupils were dispatched to either Purdysburn or Forster Green where they were kept in isolation for at least six months. A frightening situation. Thankfully they all recovered. There were various explanations but I don’t think it was ever ascertained where the outbreak originated. There was a theory that a collection of old books unearthed from a cupboard may have harboured the disease. Those of us who were not affected were under extreme scrutiny for some time. Although I escaped and did not contract the disease I was back in hospital at aged ten following complications from my appendix operation. I ended up having a section of my intestines removed as gangrene had set in. Apparently it was caused my scar tissue attaching itself to the intestine and blocking the bowel. Luckily it was caught in time, Bikinis were definitely not on my shopping list for swim wear. Scars in those days were large and unsightly.

Eleven plus was looming large and I was advised to take the so- called ‘sick exam’. Not sure whether it was considered easier or was just held later to give a chance for complete recovery, but I was determined not to have any concessions and proceeded with the normal exam. It turns out my future husband took the exam in the same room. We were from different schools and would not actually meet for another six years. I passed, he failed. Guess who’s the Professor now?

Television in the late fifties and early sixties was becoming more varied and more programmes were being broadcast. Programmes like the Billy Cotton show featuring the politically incorrect Black and White minstrels, This is Your Life, Dixon of Dock Green and of course Dr Who which I watched from behind a sofa.

My Aunt Alice who quite often looked after us always kept a tea towel handy. When the television Toppers, a troop of dancers in very modest swimsuits appeared, she put the tea towel over the TV set so that us children wouldn’t be corrupted. Aunt Alice was a big busted woman, who wore an angora berry even when indoors, and always had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. The ash always seemed to collect on her ample bosom. She went to mass every morning and wasn’t too pleased when she met me on her way home going to school. Although strict she was a loving aunt and she survived into her nineties. She was a nurse and was childless but she made up for being childless by doting on her nieces and nephews.

When the local priest called, as they did in those days, we could tell it was him. He was deaf as a post and he couldn’t hear the bell so he just kept pressing it until someone answered. This was a signal to turn off the TV in case he saw something that he would consider unsuitable. I was often reminded of the time when I was about three and I announced to him that ‘my mammy drinks wickey’ (whiskey). My mum had a little sip when she wasn’t feeling well. My dad had always believed that when we were sick that a little whiskey with hot water and sugar was the answer. Probably be seen as child abuse in today’s politically correct world but it helped us sleep and we definitely felt better. Thankfully his hearing aid was whistling like a kettle so the remark went unnoticed, or so my mother hoped.

I was a precocious child. Stubborn and outspoken. On another occasion when again having a visit from a local priest, he remarked on the lovely wheaten bread my mum served up. “Did you make that yourself Patricia?” he asked. “I did Father” she said without blinking an eyelid. “No you didn’t mammy” I said, “you bought that in the bakery.” There was an embarrassed silence as both pretended not to hear what had just been said.

My recollection of the weather in the fifties was of warm summers, cold winters and very bad storms. On numerous occasions in the winter, I remember sitting by the fire in the dark as the wind howled around the house, and listening to the sound of the trees across in the meadow crashing to the ground. Electric wires lay exposed across main roads and travel was limited. My father, as part of his duties as Town Surveyor, would be called out and we waited until the early hours of the morning for his safe return. I would wait until the lights of his car lit up my bedroom as he pulled into the garage at the back of the house and until then sleep was impossible.

I must have always liked writing. At the age of nine I wrote an essay for a local competition. I think it was for the RSPCA. I won first prize in my age group and my prize was a book. It was called School Under Snowdon and believe it or not it was written by Mabel Allan !!

Thinking back I seem to remember a little help from my mum but just a little. I also liked drama and as a child played Mustardseed in A Midsummer Nights Dream. We took part in the all Ireland Drama festival at Athlone and came in first. The memory of skipping along that huge stage in a beautiful yellow dress in my bare feet still makes me feel happy. My friends and I used to put on our own concerts for family and friends with 9B41C8DE-35CF-49AC-8FC2-E21D8C424FA8
my Aunt Susie making the costumes and even rigging up a stage with curtains that opened and closed. We sang the songs popular at the time, by artists such as Doris Day, Perry Como, Pat Boone to name few. One of our favourites Buddy Holly was killed in a plane crash in 1959.

Although never a football fan I was in bed with chicken pox in February in 1958 when the news of the Munich disaster was broadcast. I was listening on a transistor radio.I knew the names as my dad was a great fan and I remember running downstairs to tell him the sad news. I think it was a Sony transistor and it opened a whole new world as I worked my way down the dial stopping whenever I heard English. That was when I discovered Radio Luxenbourg.

Towards the end of the fifties, fashion was becoming more important. After the austerity of the post war period, Dior and Chanel were bringing out new styles and though too young to appreciate I can remember my mum always looking smart in her longer length dresses and neat fitted costumes. Watching ‘Call the Midwife ‘ plunges me right back to that era.
In 1960 I started grammar school. Another stage in my life was beckoning.

TREE OF HOPE

Posted on 06/03/201502/06/2015 by Chatter

Patrick’s maternal side of the family hail from Rostrevor, Co Down. Patrick is a gorgeous little boy who has faced many problems in his short life but his ability to smile shows that he has the tenacity to fight to achieve the milestones that many of us consider normal.

Here is Ben’s story

Our son Patrick, who was born on 1 August 2014, suffered severe brain damage at birth. As a result of this tragedy Patrick has enormous challenges ahead and we are determined to give him the best shot at defying his prognosis, and we ask for your help to do so.

Patrick was born with no heart rate, blue and not breathing. It took over 10 minutes of resuscitation for him to take his first breath. Patrick was rushed to St. Mary’s hospital in London where he received “cooling” treatment for 72 hours, and during which time he could not breathe unassisted, was unable to suck or swallow, was fed by a tube and suffered major seizures. We didn’t get to hold him until he was over a week old. He spent three weeks in intensive care during which time he learned to feed orally, started to open his eyes and eventually we heard him cry. No parents were ever as happy to hear a child cry! Patrick had several EEGs, two MRIs, two lumbar punctures and numerous seizure medications before coming home with two terrified and exhausted parents. The MRI showed severe global damage to his brain, which was heartbreaking news for us and our families. Patrick has since had an early diagnosis of quadriplegic cerebral palsy with dystonia. We will not know the likely severity for years, but there is persuasive evidence that outcomes for children like Patrick can be improved with intensive early intervention from the right specialists. As a result, Patrick’s weeks are filled with a succession of appointments with physiotherapists, feeding specialists, gastro consultants, neurologists and many others.

We have learned so far in our journey that caring for a child with special needs is traumatic, exhausting and incredibly hard work. However, we are rewarded for the hard work when we see progress, like the first time Patrick reached out to grab a toy after months of holding toys in front of him, and we take great joy in seeing him achieve little “inchstones”.

Therapies cost a lot of money. We want to give Patrick the best opportunity to reach his potential and we need your help to get there. Please help us to do this by giving generously to Tree of Hope, and in doing so help to fund some of Patrick’s treatment and care needs over the coming years.

Please help us raise £50,000 for Tree of Hope to help Patrick receive therapies and treatments to support his long term physical and mental development.

Should we exceed the target amount (or if we do not raise enough funds, or if they cannot be used for any other reason) the funds raised will go to the general funds of Tree of Hope to assist other sick children.

Should you wish to donate to PJ’s fund go to http:// http://www.justgiving.com Ben Jackson’s page.

Áine McGrath: NI is No Place to be Gay

Posted on 04/03/201502/04/2017 by Chatter

Posted on January 5, 2015 by http://vixenswithconvictions.com

There’s nothing that goes down a storm in Northern Ireland quite like an all-out political ding-dong on the airwaves. Day and daily we can rely on our local broadcast media to provide a platform for people of all stripes to have their say – be they politicians, pundits or the public. Divisive issues are a favourite with producers and presenters of course, as they’re sure to guarantee a reaction and be a ratings hit – but at what cost?

Such was my line of thinking recently when yet another segment on BBC Radio Ulster’s Talkback show was dedicated to discussing marriage equality. I turned my car radio off when a caller began “This is a sad day for Scotland…”, a reference to Holyrood’s decision to make marriage available to same sex couples. I’m all for healthy debate, particularly so when members of the public are given the opportunity to have their say, however, I’m fearful now that Northern Ireland’s broadcast media fraternity isn’t fully aware of the wider implications of so frequently relying on such discussions, often to fill up airtime.

Let’s be very frank about this: Northern Ireland is no place to be gay. Insular thinking, religious fundamentalism and regressive attitudes towards sex and sexuality combine to make this a hostile place for anyone who identifies as anything other than heterosexual. Prejudice is in our lexicon, in our government and in our laws. In the past year I witnessed blatant homophobic prejudices being aired in my (now former) workplace by colleagues whom, when challenged, cranked up the rhetoric by shouting “THEY’RE DISGUSTING!” in reference to lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered people. In another case I chose to take my custom elsewhere when the manageress of an establishment I shopped in frequently, wistfully bemoaned the state of the country at the hands of the Westminster government because “They’ve even legalised HO-MO-SEX-U-AL-I-TY!” When I go to work, when I shop and when I turn on my radio I don’t want to have to listen to that sort of thing. How many people turn on their radio or TV to find, yet again, that their lives – their reality – is being thrashed out on a public platform yet again by the empathic, the intolerant and the ignorant? How many people who have heard such broadcasts have struggled for decades to come to terms with their sexuality and continue to live in suicidal shame for fear of coming out? How many young people listening to discussions on radio phone-in shows, or the words of some of Northern Ireland’s politicians, feel that they have no future because of their sexuality? I often wonder how many vulnerable people have been pushed over the edge by things they’ve heard in the course of “healthy debate” facilitated by the broadcast media. We’ll never know.

As a society, we must be mindful that when we are discussing issues such a marriage equality and conscience clauses in a public forum, we are not discussing abstract legal scenarios, paper exercises nor inanimate matter. We are discussing issues of human dignity. Often the manner in which these discussions are conducted, and the language that is used within them, does not reflect what is actually at the heart of the discussion: that is, real people, with real feelings and real emotions – people who are systematically treated less favourably by society and whose life opportunities are restricted simply because of irrational prejudices that belong to others. Yes, we need to challenge those prejudices – and they way to do that is via dialogue. To that end I have always appreciated the virtues of public discussion facilitated by the broadcast media, but now I’m looking at it through a different lens and considering the wider implications of its ethical shortcomings – most notably in the form of responsibilities that are sometimes compromised in the interests of popularity and programme ratings. It gives us all something to think about – and is surely a topic that’s ripe for public discussion in itself.

Ann Allan : There is no shame in being depressed.

Posted on 27/02/201515/08/2022 by Chatter

Many people refuse to talk about how they are feeling for fear of being considered ‘loopy’ or ‘nuts’ or some other derogatory term. So is it any wonder when things start going downhill many try to keep it a secret.

I kept my depression hidden for some time . After a traumatic event in my life it took a couple of years to develop. It started very slowly. I was able to function, able to carry out the day to day activities and able to drag myself into work in the mornings. I appeared happy and could be the life and soul of any party. However on some occasions the mask slipped and on one occasion as I chaired a meeting, tears came from nowhere and I dissolved into uncontrollable sobs. My embarrassed colleagues were unsure what to do. On other occasions while sitting at my desk I would start to cry for no reason. I remember sitting with clients and a voice in my head saying ‘ I don’t want to be here, why am I here?’ I felt afraid and my heart started pounding and that is when I decided to see a doctor. My blood pressure was through the roof and he signed me off work. He recommended anti depressants but I refused. I came home and went to bed and that is mostly where I stayed over the next six months.

The panic attacks became more frequent and more debilitating. I refused to speak to friends on the phone. My family lived a long way off and appeared to be unaware what I was going through. I barely held the home together and if it hadn’t been for someone coming into clean a couple of days a week we would never have managed. I lay in bed most days. My husband went to work and I just lay there. My thoughts were dark and confused. On a number of occasions I heard voices in my head. I reached the stage where the bang of a door or a sudden loud noise hurt. That is hard to explain but it was as if every nerve end was so sensitive that they reacted to noise. I was having two or three panic attacks every day and I couldn’t see a future. I was so desperate on one occasion that I tried the anti depressants but they made me violently ill and I decided I didn’t need that on top of what I was already suffering. I needed to see my doctor again in order to get a certificate for work.

I was very lucky that I made that appointment. It was a locum and he suggested that he should refer me to a counsellor. I could wait for an appointment or I could go privately and be seen relatively quickly, which I did. After 3 or 4 sessions I began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. I felt my mood beginning to lift and I followed his advice to set myself a project. My project, strange though it may seem, was to strip the pine woodwork in the hall removing all the white paint. At first I thought I can’t do this but by the third morning I couldn’t wait to get up and start work. It took me weeks but I loved it and everyday I could see the fruits of my labour. Gradually the black mist was lifting and I was beginning to feel normal again. The panic attacks had disappeared. My only medication was a beta blocker to help keep my blood pressure under control. Of course I can’t say this therapy will work for everyone but it worked for me.

My advice, however, would be to talk to someone as soon as you begin to feel that something is not quite right. Don’t let it take you over. Talk to a counsellor, talk to the Samaritans or talk to your doctor. There is no shame in being depressed and help is out there.

@amhNI Lifeline 0808 808 8000 or the Samaritans on 08457 90 90 90.

Áine McGrath: A Rabbits Tale.

Posted on 27/02/201502/04/2017 by Chatter

One day last week I was lifting a few spuds at the allotment and stopped to have a chat with a neighbouring plot holder. As we stood there, I couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of my eye that there was a young wild rabbit sitting nearby, nibbling on some grass under a hawthorn hedge. Silently foraging, it sat there in the sunshine, twitching its whiskers whilst it chewed on the blades of grass. Eyes glistening, it was a beautiful thing to see – and to be so close to. So as not to disturb it, I whispered to my friend “look – right there!” and gestured in the rabbit’s direction – not thinking that he wouldn’t be quite so keen to see it as I was…

I was horrified when my friend reached towards the ground and picked up a rock, about eight inches square. Like a primitive hunter-gatherer, he eyed up the rabbit, growled under his breath and raised the rock up above his shoulder to take aim.

“NO!” I yelled, startling him into submission. “What do you want to do that for? Look at all the size of it – and look at the size of us!” He was stunned and muttered “well…they come in and eat everything in sight!”, gesturing towards his plot. Yes: I remembered then that wild rabbits had indeed found a way onto his allotment last summer and had particularly enjoyed his beans…

He went to take aim again. “NO! DON’T DO IT!” I yelled again. “Look” I said, “that wee rabbit’s only doing what comes naturally to it. It spends its day searching for food, then it goes home to its burrow and makes baby rabbits. That’s all they do – that’s all they’re supposed to do. This is its home, its natural environment. WE’RE the ones who are upsetting the natural order of things here! We each have a wee strip of ground that we grow stuff on in a concentrated, cultivated fashion, and those wee rabbits come in here and see all of this and think “waaa-hey!” We’re practically laying out a buffet for them – yet we persecute them for following their instinct!”

Unable to keep from smiling, he looked at me and said “uuuurrrgghhhh!!! You bloody big softie! I’d never thought of it that way before…” Laughing, he threw the rock away and left the rabbit to eat in peace.

Incidences such as our encounter with the rabbit serve to remind us that life does not revolve around our own personal needs and desires. There are always other people, or other things, to consider, and every choice that we are faced with presents us with an opportunity to generate a positive or negative outcome. The truth is that we can’t make informed, responsible decisions without considering the perspective of all of the parties concerned – even if it is only that of a young wild rabbit! Just because a situation directly affects us, it doesn’t mean to say that ours is the only viewpoint that matters. In every sphere of life, there will always be other viewpoints – and they will always be equally as valid as the one(s) that pertain to our own personal selves. Just take a quick look down the headlines that are making the news today. How many differing viewpoints do you see? How much compromise do you see? It makes me wonder, just how many of those people making the news today could benefit from watching baby rabbits…

Áine McGrath: Is Real Food Weird ?

Posted on 25/02/201525/05/2016 by Chatter

I remember one day a few years ago, I went to buy spuds from a local farmer who sold the produce he grew from a hayshed at the back of his house. We were chittering away when a middle-aged woman pulled up in a big Merc. She got out and with a plum in her gub she said,

“I’d like to buy sahm of yohr po-TAY-toes.”

The farmer explained that he had some freshly dug Navans and gestured towards some that he was in the process of bagging. A look of contempt crept across her face as she replied with the plum in her gub

“Oeh my GOOD-ness! They’re DER-TEH! I’ll goeh to Mahks and Spincah instead.”

The farmer and I struggled to keep our faces straight as she jumped back into the big Merc and sped off to Marksies. In this sanitised world we live in, adults are just as detached from the essential tenets of survival as the children in this cartoon are…

Out of the Adoption Box by Anon.

Posted on 22/02/201512/09/2020 by Chatter

“In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage – to know who we are and where we came from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning. No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness, and the most disquieting loneliness”.

– Alex Haley

I entered this world in late 1971, born to a single mother in her early twenties. I was given up for adoption and placed with my adoptive parents in early 1972. I don’t remember at what age I was told that I was adopted but I do remember being read a story from a book that was used at that time for adoptive parents. The book was used to explain to adopted children why they were “chosen”, “special” etc and how they as a family all lived “happily ever after…”

My family consists of my mother, father and an older brother and sister who were also adopted. The three of us were from different birth mothers.

During my childhood I was made to feel different because my family members bore no physical resemblance to one another. When out and about meeting new people we were constantly reminded of this. People would say things like ” oh, you couldn’t be related, sure you don’t look alike…” These comments continued through primary and grammar school and my sister and I were told the same by friends and teachers. Consequently, from quite a young age I felt “different” and was always embarrassed that we stood out so much as a family.

Apart from that, I would describe my early childhood as happy enough, doing the normal things that children do with their families and friends. Thinking of my natural mother is not something that I remember during those early years.
As I grew into adolescence and early adulthood, I started thinking about my natural mother more and more. She was always on my mind. Every birthday and at various times over the following years I would go through periods of wanting to find her. I would often picture our reunion in my head and what it would be like for both of us. Equally, there were a lot of times when I was angry with her and wondered why I would want to meet her when she had given me away. Surely if she really wanted to keep me she would have found a way.

The main reasons that hold adoptee adults back from finding their natural mother is the fear of rejection again and that in most cases she will have married and have had a family. Chances are they may never told anyone about you, although, their parents and siblings would have been told at the time of pregnancy. As a result, you think that they are not going to want you upsetting their lives. The other big factor is the huge guilt that you bear for your adoptive parents. These two people have given you everything in life and yet deep in your heart all you want is your “mummy”.

Four years ago aged 39, I reached the stage where I had a real desire to make contact with my natural mother. My identity and heritage started to mean more to me, which I think is probably something that comes with getting older. I also needed to know if there was any medical conditions of a genetically inherited nature that I should know about.
I made contact with Social Services, found out my mother’s name, age at birth, where she had come from and where I was born. This was the only information that I was given.

Deciding what to do caused me huge anxiety. I had all sorts of thoughts going through my head, I was afraid of upsetting my birth mother’s life and also that of my adoptive parents. I knew that if I found my birth mother and all went well, than my relationship with my parents would never be the same again and they could be deeply hurt. I had also read about cases where adoptee adults had got in touch with their natural mother only to find out several months down the line that they didn’t connect and didn’t want to keep in touch. Added to this was the fact that my sister had not had a successful reunion with her birth mother who rejected her again. My brother was in a similar situation. After a lot of thought I felt that perhaps this was something that for all concerned was best left in a “box” unopened.

However, I knew this wasn’t really what I wanted so I continued to look for her on and off through Internet searches. I was hoping to find even a photograph. On my last birthday I looked her up again on the Internet only to find her obituary. You can imagine the distress and upset this caused me. The final realisation that I would never get to meet my mummy opened up the “box” that I had kept all my feelings in for a long number of years. This has resulted in me needing counselling and medication to help me cope emotionally with the huge loss. In fact I have suffered from mild depression for a number of years, which I now realise, has been linked to my adoption. Because of the stigma of mental illness I have never talked to anyone about this except my husband. I just battled on keeping it in its “box”.

You see, for me as an adoptee adult, it is not only the loss of never having had the mummy that I should have had, but of a whole life with the extended family with whom I should have been brought up. People who I would have looked like, shared personality with, shared mannerisms, had things in common with, all those simple things that “normal” families take for granted. I am left at 43 years of age with adoptive parents who whilst they raised me very well and have always loved me, I do not feel a connection. Through counselling I understand that there would be no connection, as such, because I am not theirs in that sense and so therefore can’t have any of their personality etc. It has also been explained to me that it is a bit of a lottery as to who adopts you and what type of people they are. There are people who are adopted and have a very happy life with their adoptive parents and never feel the need to look for their natural mother. We are not a close family and have never been, though my parents would think we are. I did try over the years to do things with my adoptive mother but gave up about ten years ago because we have nothing in common and we are completely different people. For many years now my biggest regret is the loss of having a lovely Mum that I could go for coffee with, have a day out at a spa, go shopping and have fun, like lots of other mother/daughter relationships. That includes my own relationship with my daughter. I appreciate that there may be people reading this who have their natural mums and don’t get on with them, but at least they are your mums, I never got that chance.

I will be forever grateful to my parents for all they have done for me. However my adoption was never right and should never have happened simply because my mummy became pregnant at a time when it was frowned upon by the Catholic Church.

I do support adoption in cases were people are not fit to raise children or where they have been abused. However my mummy would have been perfectly able. It was just in those days it was an embarrassment to families for their daughters to be pregnant. This makes the whole thing so sad. I am happy that in modern adoptions there is a link maintained in some form with the natural mother.

On a happier note, I have now been reunited with my natural Aunt who is the most amazing person to come into my life and we connected immediately. They are, as a family, extremely sorry for what happened and acknowledge that my adoption should never have happened. I have found out lots of things about my mummy, my grandparents and extended family. I have an album of the most beautiful photographs of her and most special of all is that I have some of her jewellery and several handwritten letters. My mummy wrote these at the time of the adoption when she was trying so hard to find ways of keeping me. I have also met a cousin, his wife and children and there are plans to meet other uncles and cousins over the Spring/Summer. It is so good to finally see someone who I resemble and my daughter who will soon be twenty-five is very like my mummy. It is wonderful to finally know my heritage and for my daughter and some day my grandchildren to know theirs. I can now be who I am. What I find so sad is that my mummy did go on to marry but had no more children. I can’t imagine how she got through her life living with the fact that her only child had to be given up for adoption simply because it was an embarrassment.

What I want to say to any adoptee adults out there like myself is: Please, if you want to find your mummy stop thinking and worrying about it and just do it now. Please stop feeling guilty about your adoptive parents. Don’t feel that you are doing something wrong in hurting them. Put yourself first because this was never your fault. I can’t promise that it will be a happy reunion but at least you will have tried. My failure to do so will be the biggest regret of my life and I am struggling to come to terms with that.

To anyone who is judging me because of my feelings towards my adoptive parents, I would say it’s not as simple as two people raising you and loving you all your life. Remember they chose to adopt and always knew that their children had a heritage of their own and some day would want to find their natural families. We have a right and a need to do so. My parents are not the type who ever talked about the adoption, nor did they actively encourage us later in life to find our natural mothers. I understand this is because of their fear of loss but I feel this is selfish on their part. Please think how you would feel if you had been sent off to another family. Babies deserve to be brought up by their mummy.

And finally to any families who have fallen out. Life’s too short. Make amends and be thankful that you all have each other. What I would give to have had the family in my life that I should have had.

Name has being withheld to protect families involved. For help and advice contact:

http://www.familycaresociety.co.uk

http://www.samaritans.org

http://www.adoption.org