Slightly Bemused writes:

It is St Patrick’s Day, and I have an American daughter who is, obviously, also Irish. A proper Irish American.

It took me a few years, but I finally managed to correct a few things for her.

1: It is St Paddy’s Day, not St Patty’s. Patty is a girls name, and no disrespect to them, it just is not correct in context.

2: As an Irish person, there is no need to wear green. We already know we are Irish, we have no need to prove it to anyone else.

3: During Lent, Sundays do not count (seriously, check it out), and neither does St Patrick’s Day. Although that last is more by lack of observation rather than sanction.

4: While she does not drink, seriously, green Guinness? There are crimes against humanity and crimes against the Irish!

Little Slightly hopes to come over later in the year and study music for a semester. If she gets it it will be just up the road in Maynooth, and yep, had to correct her pronunciation on that. Her teachers told her she was wrong after, and she basically told them that if her father, who lives less than 10 miles away, tells her how to pronounce it, that is how she will pronounce it. I am not sure if it is genetic, but I love it :-)

Anyway, she can only come to Ireland if she can prove she has Irish heritage, and I am brought right back to when we got her first Irish passport. As my daughter, she not only has Irish heritage, she is a full Irish citizen.

Did you know it is very hard to give up your Irish citizenship? Her cousin, also born in the US but my eldest brother’s son, whose mother is also Irish (from the same Maynooth) when he turned 18 was told by the US authorities he had to choose.

The Irish embassy told him to choose the US. The US authorities then took his Irish passport, sent it to the Irish Embassy, who promptly sent it back to him.

So when I applied for Little Slightly’s first passport (she was about 6 weeks old) I had to do it through the Irish Consulate in Chicago. I needed to prove I was Irish. So I sent in my long form birth cert, a copy of my marriage cert, and just in case, a copy of my baptismal and confirmation certs.

I got a phone call. it went something like this:

“Hello Slightly. Are you really Irish?”

“Yes”

“How long have you lived in the US”

“I never have”

“Why are you here?”

“Because my wife is American, and we wanted Little Slightly born here so one day she might be President”

“We have a problem with one of the documents you gave us. The birth certificate is in a foreign language, and was not issued by a court”

I point out here, the official issuer of Irish birth certs is the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. So, yep, the marriage cert was coming up soon. Also, the long form birth cert has both Irish and English on it So, me:

“Ehm, you know that that language is the official language of the country you work for? And was issued by the correct official body of that country you work for?”

This did not go down well, and many delays were placed in our way, including questioning if my daughter actually existed. Needless to say this was frustrating. Little Slightly was born early February, and we were approaching St Patrick’s Day.

On the day after, I called a friend in the Department of Foreign Affairs back home. We had Little Slightly’s passport in a week, most of that time the shipping from Dublin.

Now instead of me, Little Slightly has to prove she is Irish to her college. So I am going with a repeat of my history and sending her a copy of my long form birth cert (not issued by a court) a copy of my marriage cert, and just in case, a copy of my baptismal and confirmation certs. Why not, can’t do any harm. And may help with Maynooth.

I am tempted to go for overkill and share a document I needed for my marriage in our local Church, but I was allowed to keep. It is called a Nihil Obstat which I think means no obstacle, basically I had not previously been married.

This was issued to me by the Archbishop of Kosove, and had wax and tassels and was on actual vellum. The man liked me.  When we first met, it was just after their war with Serbia, and he needed to talk to the Vatican. I set up our satellite phone, and handed it to him, walking away so he could talk in private.

He was a Bishop when I met him, he was an Archbishop at the end of that call.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Allstock

Slightly Bemused writes:

I bought a new car. Well new to me anyway. My old one had decided to do an impression of a wheeled paperweight in my driveway, useful only to keep the insurance active. Great for your no claims bonus when it is not moving.

The Elves came and took it away after I bought my new one. Not in the middle of the night like shoe elves do, these ones came in the middle of the day, and my new car is now ensconced where the old one once sat.

The new car is a Toyota Prius hybrid as part of my attempt to be responsible and better for the climate. Not a fan of the colour, but I sit inside when driving and do not need to see it. But as I always do, I brought it to my favourite garage for a check up, and to get any work done. As it is a little older, and I wanted the tyres changed, it was in for the day. Now booked for the NCT, everything should be fine for a year.

With a lot to do, I decided to hire a small runabout for the day from the conveniently placed rental company across the road. It did raise an issue for me, though. The Prius is automatic (all hybrids are, I am told), but the hire was back to manual. I found myself forgetting to change gear as I was so used to the automatic – they can be strangely addictive. After a few minutes, back in the swing of things, and stirring the petrol like an old hand.

Then I got my own car back at the end of the day, and for the first few kilometres I found myself trying to change gears using the Lucozade bottle in the front coffee holder. Let me tell you it is not very effective, the soda drive has not yet been perfected. Thankfully I did not attempt to use the clutch, as what is in that position is the main parking brake. That would have been fun.

Speaking of that brake, I did have a chuckle, and wondered if it could be a problem on a driving test. When I did mine more moons ago than I care to count, if you lifted the handbrake and it made that ratchet sound, that was a fail. You had to press the button, lift it silently, and release the button. But I cannot do that with the foot parking brake, and it makes that ratchet sound. So if I had to resit my test, would I fail?

It also got me thinking about all those cars I have driven, or to use correct Broadsheet language, all the jammers.

My first was a Ferguson T20 tractor which elicited some interesting moments where had I been my current age would have had my life flashing before my eyes. I mean seriously, the accelerator is a lever on the steering column, and being a slight fellow at the time standing on the brakes did not always do a lot. and I learned a lot more about momentum than in science class, for all it was the same science teacher who taught me to drive the thing. But I survived, and I did not crash.

The first car was a Vauxhall Avenger estate as part of my first Summer job as a landscape gardener’s assistant. I mentioned him before, oh he of no sanitation. I was all of 14 years old, and my voice broke while out rotovating between the nursery saplings.

Does a rotavator count as a vehicle, you ask? Well, when you did not learn the lesson from the tractor, and accidentally rev it too much and it takes off with a slight lad behind it, it sort of is. It had a kind of thumb accelerator that when you grabbed it tight meant you gave it more jizz. Let me just say that I am glad it was a long field, and it was a hedge at the end.

I do know my favourite car, and my least. My favourite was a Toyota Landcruiser I named Betsy. with a straight 4.2 litre diesel engine this was definitely not an environmentally conscious vehicle, but given where I was it was the right vehicle.

It carried many loads of humanitarian aid across ground a standard car could not make, and had serious torque, if not a huge amount of speed. The configuration also meant it was used on more than one occasion as an ambulance to transport patients from those remote places to the regional hospital.

It also transported Little Slightly’s mother, before she became so. She fell for me, down a flight of stone stairs. Our first date was as I brought her to the hospital. I swear I did not push her! Little Slightly asked me that, when I explained the origin of the particular scar on her mother’s shin. Just so you know, she was fine, just sore, but we wanted to be sure.

My least favourite was an armoured eighth generation Chevrolet Suburban. I was working for a US based organisation funded by the US government aid agency. One of their rules is you must buy US cars. They are a very large car anyway, but the US Ambassador was coming, and given where we were they wanted an armoured car. So this mini tank was provided. It had inch thick bullet resistant windows, steel plating all around, what they call ballistic sheeting on the floor, and steel anti-roll bars.

The standard version weighed in at about 3 metric tonnes, the additional shielding pushed it up to close to 5 MT. This meant it was definitely in the range where you needed a truck licence to drive it, which I do have. But they did not upgrade the suspension or the brakes.

Coming close to doubling the weight meant if not driven carefully, the thing rolled like a boat on the high seas and stopped eventually, if lucky before ramming into whatever poor car was in front of you. For my sins, I was given the task of driving it when the Ambassador was in town. The good thing was they did not know who I was, I was just a driver, and the secrets you can learn!

In my time, though, I have had to file a number of insurance reports. And I think my favourite was the one with the sheep. I was working in the town of Prizren in Kosove, as Head of Office. We had a regular shuttle to and from Skopje, the regional head office, and in the summer it went over the mountains. Think very scenic, but very narrow, winding roads. The shuttle was driven always by our most experienced (not always most senior) drivers.

One day, the shuttle was late back and we were a little worried. It was picking up a senior manager on her way back from leave, and some important post for us all, much personal but including for me in my position. But in those mountains, the radio does not work, so the lateness was a cause for concern.

Eventually he turns up at my office door (in the same building of the stone steps of fate) and hands me the post, and turns to leave. Naturally I ask him what happened to delay him. He replies in his moderate level English (better than mine in his language, so not being critical):

“We got hit by a sheep.”

“You mean you hit a sheep?” I asked, sceptically.

“No, we got hit by a sheep!” he was definite on this.

So out I pop, and there is the car, a large (yes, American) Jeep. The windscreen was shattered, and the only part clear was in front of the driver. The front grille was smashed, and dents in a lot of the front bodywork. Mentally scratching my head, I go to the office of the freshly arrived manager, a lovely lady with a wicked sense of humour. So I asked what happened. she told me:

“We got hit by two flying sheep.”

So now the story has elevated from ‘We got hit by a sheep’ to ‘We got hit by two flying sheep.’

Needless to say I was intrigued.

Apparently the driver had come around a bend at a moderate pace, and a shepherd was driving his flock towards him. So our driver stopped to wait until they passed his vehicle, as you should. While waiting, a small Yugo (think the car in Die Hard 3) came flying around the bend ahead of them and slammed into the flock.

Sheep went flying, and two struck our vehicle, one over the bonnet and hit the windscreen, and the other lodged under the front. Sadly, the top sheep died, but the other was fine. The Yuga was not going anywhere soon.

My dilemma was how on Earth do I fill in that insurance claim form? But the manager was quick thinking. She bought the dead sheep, and we had a barbeque that weekend.

Slightly Bemused‘s Column appears here every Wednesday

Pic: Slightly Bemused

A ward in Naas General Hospital

This morning.

‘Slightly Bemused’ explains last week’s absence.

Slightly writes:

Sorry, this will wander all over the place. My daughter has given out to me about that, so like any good father I am totally ignoring her advice. Besides, she wants instruments from me for her last birthday, last Christmas and possibly next Christmas. I have bargaining power.

Have you ever dandled a child on your knee? Dandling is that thing where you put a little one on your knee and bounce them. Usually to keep them quiet, sometimes to put them to sleep. As a parent let me tell you this, never dandle them after a feed unless you have burped them first. Otherwise it can get messy.

I could only ever dandle on my right knee. Nephews, Nieces, and of course my own little one. Now she had this trick, once she became mobile (a more terrifying thing for a parent I cannot imagine). She would be all bouncy bouncy on my right knee, and with that suddenness that kids have would decide it was time to sleep.

She would roll off my right knee, wrap her arms around my left shin, sit on that foot, and she was gone. She stayed there until true deep sleep loosened the arms, and she would wake up in her own bed the next morning.

So I was not feeling well, and did the dangerous thing of calling my Doctor. Now this man has been doing his best to keep me alive for a little over 30 years, and the surgery for a few more than that. So calling him is tantamount to a stand off between what he knows, and what I want to hear. Once he used those most dangerous words: Do you want my medical opinion? There is only one response to that – you shut up, open your ears and say Yes!

The result of this, after a physical visitation, was a short few days in Naas Hospital.

The fact that I was seen within minutes of arriving probably means the doctors and nurses there also thought something was up (Potassium levels, for the medically curious).

Within minutes I had one nurse taking my details, while another was plumbing me up. When that happens you know it is serious, so you start to pay attention. This was not my first time in there, and when they pulled my file it was a little thicker than I liked. It is a little thicker again now.

But the problem for me is that once you are stuck on a drip, you have to lie down, and when I do that I get these twitches (hypnic jerks), I have as long as I can remember. They are not in any way problematic, but most people only get them shortly before they sleep. I get them as soon as I lay flat. When you have a needle in your arm, these twitches are not a great idea. They are not violent or anything, but they are random.

Somewhere over the years I learned that if I do any conscious activity, I can stop these twitches. So out over the edge of the mattress goes my right dandling foot, and whatever switch inside that bounces babies turns on, and there goes my foot, bouncing imaginary babies on my knee.

This is not a problem on my own bed, but on a hospital gurney the vibrations create a rattle, so in effect there I am, dandling a gurney. I am sure I have done weirder stuff, but this was a first.

Apparently, once started to foot goes on automatic even when I am asleep, which I did not know. But the rattle did upset the sleep of other patients, and as nurses passed by, or when they came to do their checks, a calm caring hand would still the errant foot, and for a while all was serene again. Until the internal button was pushed again in my sleep, and off it would go. I cannot dance, I have no sense of rhythm, but apparently my foot does in my sleep.

One of the nurses has cats, and she said the way my foot went reminded her of a cat purring. It was obviously an unconscious source of comfort to me. But she joked that when the rattle restarted, they would all joke ‘There he goes again!’ and ask each other whose turn it was to still the night.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday, health permitting.

Pic: Naas General Hospital

Slightly Bemused writes:

There are few things more wonderful as a father than receiving a call from your daughter. Which can be followed moments later by a terrifying term: ‘I need your help.’

Visions of the world ending, desires of being superman to turn up and save the day. And then you breathe a sigh of relief when she tells you what. ‘I need help with my homework!’ Nearly as terrifying, but maybe less daunting.

Last time she asked me for help, it was for her Maths homework. Since I was in school they have changed the way maths is taught. I was terrible. I knew the answers, but the method and that whole ‘show your work’ thing really tripped me up. As Mr Incredible commented, they changed math!

This time was easier. She was asking about the tin whistle. I actually knew something about that. I still have mine, a C silver, although which box it is in still eludes me. In school we had Wednesday afternoons for music class, and I recall many hours attempting to get the pitch right. Breath control was never my strength. But my teacher tried, and Fáinne Gheal An Lae was massacred many a time. O Ró Sé Do Bheatha ‘Bhaile did not do much better.

But I have friends and family who are much better than I. And of course we have the virtuoso talents of so many across the country. And the fact that a new development, the feadóg íseal, was developed within my lifetime. Music evolves, instruments evolve, but sometimes you do not expect it to while you are around to see it.

I used have one of those pairs of trousers with the long whistle pocket. I guess I lived in hope. I think we lost them once the superstores started getting trousers from other places, and I realised that for the past 18 years I have bought most of mine in shops in the US. Arising from my first visit where I literally arrived in the clothes I was standing up in. A fire in my apartment where I nearly lost the mother of my daughter meant I lost my wardrobe. I have never and will never regret that decision, but I have to be honest that fire terrifies the living daylights out of me even now.

I arrived the night before Thanksgiving, into a very busy Chicago. And there was a possibility that an air of diesel fuel still clung around me (it was a diesel heater went up and took down the apartment). I still remember the face of the immigration official. There was (maybe still is) a small green card that you said what you were importing. And I did not fill one out because I did not actually have anything.

I was also sincerely whacked by the long journey, and I wonder what I must have looked like to that poor officer. But he looked me in the eye for a few moments, grunted slightly, and cleared me for entry. It was late, so off to my lady’s brother’s place, and a shower. JC Penny had to wait for the morning, but that night I was treated to an incredible band while the man who would soon be my brother in law quite literally cooked up a storm. An incredible chef, he cooked the cake for our wedding.

This was before September 2001.

What has any of this to do with tin whistles? Well, I bought one for my daughter a few years later. Bringing it in through customs in the US at that point was a little more interesting. Understandable, so this is not a complaint. But I think the customs official has Irish ancestry. Whatever it looked like on the scan, once I opened my bag and she saw it, she chuckled, and after checking everything else, I was cleared.

When I arrived at her home, I gave it to my daughter. Now, I mentioned that I struggled with breath control. She was just coming up to her 8th birthday, but she just took it, wandered through a few scales, and then rattled off a beautiful tune she had learned on violin. She was 8, she had just been handed a new instrument she had never used before, and in moments was rattling off classical music. Her mother was a piccolo player, so maybe not surprising. I struggled for years to get a straight tune.

If anyone is interested, it was a D scale in brass.

Her next project is on bagpipes. That will be fun :-)

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Naomi Tin Whistles

A Maasai ‘rain stick’ gifted to the author

Slightly Bemused writes:

There is a phrase that goes along the lines of ‘you should not shake a stick at it’. It could be correct.

I went for a walk today (Tuesday), all within my allowed 5 km in case anyone is curious. And for some reason the rain gods decided to play. We had all the varieties of Irish rain you could wish for. Upwind, downwind, sideways, every sideways! and of course the rain that comes up against all laws of physics, but nature cares little for that.

I found myself doing something I rarely do. I envied a friend. I have a coat, a very waterproof coat. But it has a little shortcoming. It only comes to my knees. Being a good waterproof coat this basically means that all the water it is not let in to your shoulders is sluicing off at knee level on your trousers and onto your shoes. I forgot to wear my impermeables today.

My friend, on the other hand, has a coat that goes to his ankles, truly a great coat. He also wears appropriate footwear, unlike the cheap and cheerful stuff I wear. My formal shoes are more, well, formal, but day to day is normally in the ‘comfortable’ section. And on rainy days, the squishy section.

A number of years ago I was given a gift of a Maasai rain stick (above). For most of those years it has remained in the same place, and said friend forbade me to touch it. Even doing the vacuuming near it seemed to set off the rain gods, and despite his wonderful coat, being out in the rain was not his favourite thing.

Tuesday morning I moved it. I kinda had to, I will have a guest staying and I was trying to clean the place. Sorry!

I have not yet figured out if returning it to its place of slumber will quiet the gods of rain, or if I need a new place, or if a sacrifice is needed. Maybe a melon, or an avocado.

When I was doing my best to be the dorky one in college I used own what we called a donkey jacket. Heavy wool, reflective stripes, and a design intended for work. At the time, well known for being almost the uniform of council workers across the land. Dull, boring, and very definitely utilitarian. But when it rained, your shoulders were dry. When it snowed, you were warm. In the fashion stakes it most definitely did not win, but I preferred to be warm and dry.

It got me thinking of the different coats I have worn over the years. Some of fabric, some of a different weaving. The different faces we put to the world. How sometimes the coats we wear are used as camouflage, but also sometimes as bulwarks to help us understand who we are. How they help weave our identity around us.

My mother is of Scottish ancestry, my father of Cork. The Scots have tartan kilts and yep, been at a few family weddings that were occasionally more revealing than they were intended to be.

My father’s family used a crois, the old belt with a similar style of pattern. I am not sure how, but some day I wish to find a way to make a united version so my daughter can be of her own clan. Maybe start a new one. All families started somewhere. Some in blood, some in pain, but the best ones started in love.

Did you ever save a life? I know I have, given a Heimlich Maneuver or two along the way. But, while all of those are precious, they are not the one I remember best. As a weird youngster I used be a clown. And a part of what we did was go to the various childrens’ hospitals around Dublin (I was a student, outside was harder, more expensive).

One day our troupe was in Crumlin where we blazed through, tried not to terrify those kids afraid of clowns, and generally not be a burden on the incredible medical staff. We did not just turn up, it was organised.

And in the main foyer was a man with his son. Myself and my friend were wearing these huge red noses that squeaked. When we first met that young fellow my friend did the usual smuck and squeaked my nose, I squeaked his. We were met with blankness as the father cradled his son in his arms.

Cue another round of visits to other children, and back to the foyer. Father and son were still there, but this time a small arm reached out, noses were squeaked but not by us. Another round, another arrival in the foyer. Squeak, squak, and on we went.

Time finally ran out, buses and trains had to be caught, so after a few final squeaks we bade our goodbyes to the dad, did something silly for the little one and turned to get out of the silly coats we had worn all day (a kind of red tartan, not my family’s) and the little chap raised an arm and said ‘Bye’. Just that.

His father stared at him and started crying, we turned to the nurse who was our guide and she had both hands to her face, and tears starting to roll. We were worried we had done something wrong, and so scuttled off to change. When she came in a few moments later she explained the little fellow had not uttered a sound in nearly six months. Then he said bye to a pair of silly clowns in multicoloured coats.

I have no idea what happened after, but when I remember it I often think very fondly of that day, and wonder if the life saved that day was my own.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

A vintage Krups liquidiser

Slightly Bemused writes:

I bought a latte today, first one in months, from one of those machine dispensers. I would love to tell you how it tasted, but I managed to knock it over unto my floor just after getting home. Until I figure out how to use my wet and dry vacuum cleaner again, my living room smells of milky coffee.

So I made egg flip. Some people call it differently, never mind. But there is a trick to it when done for just one person. Beat the living daylighths out of a single egg in a large mug, add sugar (which I consider essential) and others like vanilla or cinnamon. I have never understood cinnamon, but when Little Slightly was still very little we took her on a spice tour around Zanzibar island, and I saw how vanilla was grown. It was interesting, but the little one preferred the coconuts.

Any way, then you pour boiling milk on the egg, which cooks it, but you still have to beat the liquid or you end up with lumps, which while safe and tasty, are not so pleasant over the tongue if you are a fussy little eejit like I was.

Now, my mother used make this a little differently. There were quite a few of us, so something close to industrial processing was needed, and out came the Krups liquidiser.

Eggs were cracked, and sugar was added, and occasionally honey (we have a whole shelf of glass beakers that used be honey jars). Swooshed on low setting while one of us kept an eye on the pot of milk getting ready to do its best to overflow and make a mess.

What has this to do with my latte? Well, my dad took a flask of coffee to work for lunch every day, made with boiled milk. The rest of the milk went into the liquidiser, and egg flip was dispensed like magic.

Now at the time we did not have a dishwasher, but by the time we came home from school, that wonderful machine was back in the cupboard, clean and ready for more delights on another day. Usually it was only on cold mornings, if my memory is right, and this morning was cold and damp. The spilled latte reminded me of my Dad’s coffee, and so I made egg flip.

Did you know that Ireland cannot export eggs to the US? Most of our eggs are brown, and most, if not all I have ever cooked in the States are white. That has nothing to do with it, but it is interesting, and related more to the breed of chickens and their feed than anything else. I never checked out goose eggs over there. Maybe next time.

The main reason is actually to do with the laws around eggs preservation. In the US, eggs have to be washed, which removes a coating that is a little yucky, but serves as a bacterial barrier. As a result, US eggs are always in fridges in the supermarkets, and have relatively short shelf lives.

EU rules say they should not be washed, keeping the yucky barrier. Chickens have been laying eggs for a long time, and this protected them as they were incubated to hatching. And so eggs in most Irish supermarkets (when there is not pandemic rush) are out on the shelves. I know most people then put theirs into their fridges at home, and this does extend their shelf life.

Oh, a quick tip if you are somewhere that may not have perfect weather for eggs, ask the seller to shake them gently. If they rattle, do not buy that one. And get a small cup or similar, and crack each egg into it one at a time, just in case, before transferring to whatever you are cooking.

My mother used to cook what we called an omelet but was much closer to a fritatta every Friday. Sunday was a roast. If a chicken, then Monday was ham, and Wednesday ham and chicken pie. But in keeping with no meat on Fridays, she lined the big grill pan with pastry (we used it to grill the sausages on Saturday :-) ) and at least a dozen eggs went into that liquidiser, while onions and tomatoes were chopped. And someone had to shred the cheese.

The grill pan first went into the oven with tinfoil over the pastry, then out it came, and the mixture was put in, except the cheese. That was put on after the mix had set, and the last spell was under the grill. The arguments over who got a corner piece could be famous.

But my floor still smells of latte, the wet/dry carpet cleaner awaits, but for a while my living room smells of my childhood, and egg flip.

Slghtly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Krups

Slightly Bemused writes:

So I wore a hole in my sock today. Well, technically 3 holes. Second time this week, although the one yesterday was a single hole. Both in the heel, first right, then left. And a big toe started peeping out the end. I am not sure what this means.

These socks owe me nothing – they are 15 years old if they are a day, and have been washed in a variety of ways from washing machines, to hotel sinks to washboards at the side of a river somewhere. One of my t-shirts of similar vintage also decided to give up this past week. I wear my clothes to destruction.

Superstition tells us that if you wear a hole in your sock, you will receive a letter. If two holes wore in your sock within the same week it is a sign that you will soon receive a gift. As far as I can tell, superstition is silent on the matter of multiple-sock-multiple-hole scenarios, but I live in hope. The one thing that is certain is that ultimately a new pair of socks is coming my way.

When I was young, a hole in my sock meant that more often than not my mother would be out with the darning needle. These days, the material my socks are made of would not take kindly to such treatment, and so my socks are destined for a different fate. Just what, as yet, I cannot say, but that spirit of not just chucking something out because it is no longer pristine remains with me.

After washing, they make great dusters; if trimmed right, they can make good wrist warmers (not that that is needed here); or if transferred to an imaginative child, they could be anything their minds can craft them into. My daughter made hand puppets, as I am sure generations of children have done.

But there are generations of children who have never made a sock puppet. And in many of the places I worked, I am sure there are many who never will. And not because they are not imaginative, or resourceful, or careful not to waste items that have passed their original use. The plethora of homemade toys I see every day is testament to that.

No, they likely will not make sock puppets for a more basic reason: they mostly do not have socks in daily use. The footwear of choice there is the flip flop, or sandal, or thong (for our antipodean friends). It is cheap, cheerful, and more importantly, cool. I have occasionally had snickers come my way at wearing socks in such a hot climate.

Socks are certainly available, and are worn, but only with the good shoes, like on Sundays and special occasions. This will wear them out slower, while the wearing of sandals allows one to be much cooler.

Except of course for those who were forced to flee their homes. They might not even have the flip flops. I have occasionally asked myself, as this morning, that if I were forced to leave at no notice, what would I try to take with me? Would socks be high on my list of priorities? or would I go for the photo albums of my daughter? Or the external disc drives with my electronic data? What if I had not time, and all I was left with were my socks?

Today in far too many places, millions of people have been forced from their homes with little or no warning. I heard stories of women walking for over 8 days, carrying their children and little else, to get to safety. They came without socks, and occasionally without flip flops, or they wore out. Yet on they came, seeking a place to allow their children to be children.

So this morning, as I contemplate the holes in the heels of my socks I do wish for a gift, but not for me. I wish for the gift of peace so children can explore their own imaginations in peace, and mothers do not have to walk for days just to keep their families alive. And maybe even a sock puppet or two may make a dull day more amusing.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Alamy sock stock

Slightly Bemused writes:

There are a few problems with coming up with a good murder plan. I suppose the first is to not devise it with your supposed victim while lying on a certain sleeping bag under a wonderfully dark starlight night

I went to Christmas Mass. Of course, I had not booked ahead, but the stewards were wonderful. I got offered a place at the back where they normally sit. Masks were on, social distancing was observed. And somewhere in there my knees let me down. A very kind man with a really cute baby helped me up, but one of my decrepit knees took a knock. When a lot of kilos of me decides to come down, and the portions of my body supposed to stop them get in the way in the wrong way, let me just say it hurts. So once home a gel was brought forth and rubbed liberally. Knees move again! A dog will happily do yoga once more.

When I met the lady who became my wife first came into my life she did something very sensible. She told me of her allergies, and one in particular. It was to the active ingredient of this particular gel, hard to come by in the US, but easily available in Europe, and Ireland. She had an Epi-pen, and made sure I knew where it was and how to use it. And so a murder plot came about even as I was being told how to prevent it. She presented it herself, but did advise it would only work in Europe.

The second problem with a murder plot is discussing it with the daughter of the proposed victim, especially when she is your own daughter. She gets kind of upset at the idea of you offing her mother!. Probably not too surprising, really. This discussion was after she pretty much broke her wrist the year Harley Davidson fans came to town, and we had to go to Chicago. Out came the gel, and after making sure she was not allergic, the plot was presented while massaging the sore joint. Now currently safely a couple hundred miles away from the ‘victim’.

We did head up the Sears Tower and did the whole Ferris Beuller thing of leaning on the window. The look on the usher’s face pretty much said that everybody did that, and he had had enough.

And so comes the third problem with a murder plot – stop telling everyone! The theory was that if I liberally smeared this gel on my hands, then said hello, would it be a problem? Lots of TV shows have hinged on less.

Simple answer is it would not work. Apart from there being an Epi-pen to the rescue, I have an image in my head of a CSI type scientist saying something along the lines that her allergic reaction was caused by a product not readily available in the US. Hmm… Who might have visited recently? So, nabbed! It was my darling daughter who explained that point, after she gave out to me, and hit me with her other arm.

Now I am lucky, I have very few allergies. Biggest one is contact nickel, and in recent years I am not sure if I am developing hay fever, or just live too close to lots of grass. But Little Slightly does have a few. One year we had to take her to get one of those tests where they prick you multiple times for all sorts of stuff. Her mother could not hold her, as she said she herself was allergic to pretty much everything being tested.

And so my little love, with both forearms pricked many times, nestled in my arms, and put her head down on a certain rotund part of me and said it was her personal pillow. Still trying to lose that!

The funniest bit though, was when the doc came back in, and he had a little chart of which prick was what. The biggest, reddest welt was labelled as ‘Control’. Both her mother and I started laughing. Our darling never did respond well to control, she has always been herself. And with all in my power I will make sure that never changes.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic: Allstock

Slightly Bemused writes:

Of course at Christmas Life Of Brian (1979) keeps coming to mind. “Blessed are the cheesemakers.” “Maybe he means makers of all dairy products”. There is a town in a country where I used work. To get there you did not ask ‘how far’, it was ‘how long’. But there was a farm there, originally set up by a Belgian, but had since passed it back to his workers after he became too old to manage it. Before he passed, he taught them how to make cheese.

They also had a hostel, and when I say that people would endure the hours on those roads to come, stay overnight, drink the excellent beer from the local brewery, just for that cheese, please do not think I am exaggerating.

The cheese was not unlike Edam in flavour, but he had no wax, so he wrapped them in a muslin-like fabric, and they developed a hard crust, with the inside being the softer texture. An Italian colleague loved the rinds: he would grate them like parmesan whenever he made pasta, simply cutting off any mold that developed. Nothing of the little rounds was wasted. I do not recall what happened to the muslin. Most likely taken by the housekeepers for their own use.

Weeknights were fine – you could hardly get in the door at weekends. I once had to sleep (quite comfortably, I assure you. I still have the sleeping bag) on the floor of the common room as all beds were taken, and my important guests had nabbed the couches. Once or twice I had to stay at the nun’s convent nearby. Basic, but clean and safe. Not so much beer though.

I had met them years before that, when I was travelling alone. He was only building the guest quarters, I slept in the same room, but that time on a couch. Everyone ate around the same table. His wife was ruthless as the workers came in if they had not taken off their boots and washed their hands outside. But she made sure there was food enough for all, and would at the end send one of the workers off with food in insulated dishes for the guards and workers who could not attend the table.

And that first night he told me about his passion for cheese. It came about simply because when he started the farm he had no refrigeration, and the milk from his cows would go off.

He tried yoghurt, but without pasteurisation and refrigeration, people got sick. So he turned to cheese. On one of his visits back to his home he visited local dairies and commercial cheesemakers. He was rebuffed a few times, but one told him he was asking in the wrong place. He needed what I guess we now call artisanal makers, or farmers. He eventually found a farmer who made small batches, mainly for family use, as the dairy took most of their milk and that was their income.

So he learned from this family, where when the children came home, one of their chores was turning the cheeses as they matured. At home, I had to clean the grate and lay out the firebox of the range, twisting yesterday’s newspapers into little firelighters. Or maybe a different day it was laying and clearing the table, or the washing up team. I thought turning cheeses sounded more cool, until I saw this man’s operation. It looked like hard work, not so much for the effort as the monotony and the amount of it, and the care that needed to be taken.

He told me this over several glasses of Chivas Regal – the real stuff. Knock-off could easily be obtained, but blindness is a risk. He told me he was sure one of his staff sold his own empty bottles for that illicit dealing. He was not worried about that aspect, but was about the dangers. But lectures did not help, although I do recall his admonishment not to eat yoghurt in that country.

I always brought him a new bottle every time I traveled, varying the whiskeys, introducing him to Irish ones he had not tasted. He really liked the Jameson, Black Bush went down well, but the 12 year old Bushmills malt went down better. I never tried Paddies on him. The last one before his passing was a Middleton. On that night, we talked rugby.

And had it with cheese and Belgian mustard, and slices of his own farm apples.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.