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My Life, A Dream That Didn’t Come True.


It’s a busy week and my youngest is celebrating becoming a teenager. However just in case you are missing me here is a very old post I like, written before many of you began to follow me, which I hope you enjoy. It’s written the way I used to write all my posts, as if I was speaking instead of writing an essay! I hope you enjoy it.

Originally posted on My thoughts on a page.:

As a child I dreamed of being a mom,
to eight children.
I never really thought about the dad.small_2715436546
In fact when I played with the boy next door,
He got to be the dad,
and in the game that meant he went to work,
(around the side of the house),
and spent hours there,
waiting for me to tell him it was time to come home!

When I got older,
I dreamed of making the Olympics.
Every spare minute I trained,
in and out of the pool.
School was something I did to keep my parents happy.

As a teenager I did not dream of what I would do after finishing school.
I didn’t have to.
I knew without any doubt that I would be a nurse.

When I was nursing my Dad got sick.
He got motor neurone disease.
His illness didn’t stop me dreaming of the day,

View original 220 more words

photo credit: cobalt123 via photopin cc

There is more to being a mother than rearing babies.

Last night it hit me like a train, my youngest is about to become a teenager. As I look at her I am struck by how much she has changed in the past year. She has grown taller than myself, and now shares the clothes belonging to her older sisters.  She enjoys being alone in her bedroom, and is becoming a part of her older siblings conversations. The Sylvanian Family village gathered over many years, is covered in dust, never to be played with again.

For a moment I wallowed in my loss. I am no longer a mother to young children. My life is hurtling forward, with so much behind me. Moments I will never again enjoy, such as holding my small babies, walking baby steps holding the hand of a young child who is fascinated by everything they pass, the closeness of reading bed time stories, the bear hug of my children or the extreme welcome home received, regardless of how long I have been missing. It is over. There is so much in the past.

Bereft I took myself to bed, mourning my loss.photo (2)

As I lay in bed I turned on my lamp. Something fell to the floor and as I picked it up I saw it was  my book mark of Daniel. On it are 11 photos. I looked at him through the years, a small boy of two, a school going boy of five, a lively boy of seven, a wonderful character at eleven. Then I looked at the final photo, the  most recent one, of him bald, wearing his baseball cap and cheeky grin. The one that was taken at the age of 13. His final year of life. The year he suffered more than anyone ever should. The year we saw how brave a boy he was.

I thought of my own darling girl, with the long hair and pretty smile, how full of life she is and I remembered…  The young boy I visited most days, the young boy, the same age as my little lady is now, who was told he had cancer. I remembered how sick he was, how tired he became, how stoical he was,  how little he got to smile in his thirteenth year, and I was ashamed.

It is wrong for anyone to feel pity for me because my baby is growing up. I should celebrate all her milestones, and be as full of excitement for the year and years ahead as she is. My life as a mother is not to rear babies, but to nourish and support my children throughout all their lives. To praise them when they do well, to celebrate their happy days, and to be there when life throws difficulties in their direction. I have enjoyed so many of their baby days, but now real parenting begins, and it is up to me to continue to enjoy the many happy days that lie ahead.

Today as I collect my still twelve year old from school I will listen as she describes her day, and when she becomes all excited about Thursday I will give a sneaky glance at Daniel, as he smiles out at me, and I will wink in his direction, ‘Thanks for the reminder sweetheart, where ever you are”.


My writing update.

I know you are all mad anxious to find out how my creative writing course is going? It sounds so high brow doesn’t it, ‘creative writing’? As if I am some sort of apprentice booker prize author, when in reality I’m just one of many bloggers who enjoys writing. I do of course wonder what is the difference between a ‘real’ author and me? What makes a good story, and could I ever write one? Hence the course.

Well thankfully I am continuing to really enjoy it. Now Daniels anniversary and birthday sadness have passed I am finding it so much easier to write. I have freed up one morning (not every week, but most weeks) and this has made a huge difference. It is giving me time to read, to think, and to write. Over the past few months we have spent time learning about characterization, point of view (who knew there were so many?)’the moved character’, (that sounds very writerish doesn’t it?) and dialogue. At the end of each module we get an assignment or two to complete. I had not realised how difficult they would be, but once I completed them I found I had enjoyed the challenge. The problem is that once I have the assignments finished I then sit looking at them for days, editing and wondering, do they fit the brief, and are they an embarrassment. Each time I press ‘send’ to submit them I do so with a ridiculous amount of angst, which has not diminished over the months.

Then the best bit, as within a week I get my ‘homework’ back. When I see the email arrive I wish I had no children or responsibilities, as I want to drop everything to read it. The feedback is so helpful. I am slowly understanding how a story works, and as I re read my assignments with the feedback creative writingcomments added, I think, “why did I not see that?”.

The latest module I have found particularly interesting, and the assignment seemed really doable. I was asked to come up with about six opening lines for a story, in which the action begins; no preface, just straight in to the action. Great I thought, at last an easy assignment. Part two of our ‘homework’ was to pick one of them and write a story, a page long. The ending was in some way to link to the opening.

So I sat down to begin and… nothing.  It was not as easy as I thought. I wrote what I thought were great openers, but a few hours later I re read them and I can only describe them as ‘boring’. I re wrote, and re wrote, and now a week later I am still doing so and you guessed it, I’m not satisfied. However even though they are not perfect I thought you might be interested in what I’ve come up with so far, so here goes…

I quickened my step, not daring to look back, as I heard the car creep along.

My heart was pounding as I lay in the darkness listening to the unmistakable creak of a footstep on the stairs.

Looking around at my children’s happy faces, laughing and shouting over each other, I knew I could not tell them.

I ducked as low as I could, hoping to blend into my seat, as I recognised the young couple getting on the bus.

Picking up the post my heart was racing, as the red envelope caught my eye, he had not forgotten.

It was only a moment in time, perhaps not even a second long, maybe it wasn’t him?

I saw her again on Friday at the school gates, looking less scared. Maybe I had been mistaken?

Picking up the photo of my beautiful smiling boy, weakened by the midnight hour and two glasses of wine, I let my tears flow.

Of those titles I have already picked one and written my story about it, but I am not going to tell you which one, well not just yet anyway. I am now doing my usual edit and re edit, but I promise I will brave it and share here when it is finished, hopefully within the next few days.

Now I’ve said it I have to do it. Gulp.

photo credit: It’s Arguable Whether I Had Any in the First Place via photopin (license)

Better to try and fail?

Have you any addictions? Now there’s a personal question if ever I heard one. As my mother would say, “A policeman wouldn’t ask you that!”. Well I have no problem admitting to having one or two. Not of the heroin or crack cocaine variety you may be disappointed to note, something a lot tamer. Some of you who follow me on twitter or facebook may think it’s wine, but again you are wrong.

My true love in life is a cup of tea.

I can hear how disappointed you all are but that is a fact. In any given day I drink between 11 and 15 cups of tea, and I love every one of them. As I wrote here before, ‘The truth behind a cup of tea’, it is not just a cup of tea, it is so much more.Tea break in Ireland

Here in Ireland it is the first thing we offer you if you are in shock, happy, just visiting,just about to leave, devastated, dumped, worried, gossiping or furious. There is nothing in life that sitting down with a cup of tea and a friend does not make a little bit easier. From my very first morning gulp, to my suppertime sip it is healing to my soul.

However here in Ireland the cup of tea is in danger. The younger generation do not view it as I and generations of Irish have done for so many years. The tradition is dying and on my watch. I have four children and not one of them drink tea. Many of my friends have also gone to the dark side… coffee! Expresso, latte, capuchino are their preferred choice. Not to mention the ones who arrive here and ask for a cup of hot water, that I can’t cope with at all.

Recently one of my children began to lecture me about my over indulgence in tea, ( I admitted to drinking eight cups and she was horrified, so I was glad I lied) I said I could take it or leave it if I had to, or at the very least I could cut back. She said I couldn’t, which really bugged me, and for some unknown reason I heard myself say,

“Yes I can, and for Lent that is what I am doing. I will not be drinking any more than four cups of tea per day, so there”

I cannot tell you what madness overcame me, but without doubt it is one of the most ridiculous, spur of the moment things, I have ever been foolish enough to say out loud. For those of you not of a Catholic religion, what I agreed to do, was to reduce my tea intake for all of Lent which any decent Catholic will tell you, lasts forty days and forty nights. Don’t ask me why they feel the need to clarify that Lent is both day and night, but they do, which sadly means I have no get out clause such as drinking after dark. We are currently on day two.lent

How is it going?

Well let me tell you now, things are not going at all well. I am like someone wandering the Sahara Desert I have such a thirst on me. I don’t just have it occasionally, but all the time. Even when I am drinking my permitted cup of tea I am doing so in a panic, all the while thinking “Oh no it’s nearly gone”. Today I’d a great idea, I substituted my normal mug for a rather large (okay huge) one, but it hasn’t worked. I can only liken the whole thing to passing a sign which says “keep off the grass” or “wet paint”, you just have to put your foot out or touch the wall. I have begun to wander past the tea bags and imagine making a cuppa. I expect it is only a matter of days before I begin to dream of it. My every moment (no I am not exaggerating) is about my next cup of tea.

I will try to continue, but I am not sure I will be able to. My children have each ‘gone off’ something for Lent, such as biscuits or chocolate and my OH has bravely told us he is off sweets. Off sweets I say! He never eats sweets  the cheat, but he tells me he does and that his is a greater sacrifice as he will not be ‘indulging’ in any sweets at all, unlike me with my four cups of tea a day. Can you believe it!

Oh dear now I’m all worked up again. I can feel myself getting agitated, my fingers are definitely beginning to shake. the only cure… a cup of tea, but that would be number five… and it is only midday.

I will try for one more day, but more and more I am thinking that I will forget about this stupid challenge, surrender so to speak, and when questioned I will sit up on my high horse and say,
“I don’t believe in Lent anyway”.

photo credit: Pouring Tea at teany via photopin (license)
photo credit: Nazca via photopin (license)


It’s in the genes.

I was fondly remembering my own life as a child earlier today, and to be honest it has made me think that my children need DNA testing.  They may look a small bit like me, but then again if I look closer maybe not, and they seem to have some of my mannerisms, but that is probably due to the fact I am always around them. I know I was present at all four births so it is highly unlikely  all four were unwittingly swapped, but overall they are alien beings to me. They do not share my humour, they are much more health conscious than I am and above all their attitude to school puzzles, and at times, alarms me.

When I was a young child I rarely got into trouble in school, however that was more to do with my quick thinking than behaviour. If I had ‘forgotten’ to do my homework I came up with a good excuse and delivered it in such a way that I got away with it while fellow classmates were given lines for punishment. I was also very quick with a great memory, so an unlearned poem could be learned just in time, or homework copied and ready before it was asked for. In contrast my own children would not dream of going into primary school without their homework, and unlike their mother they have no creative ability at all, so they cannot lie. In fact so worried was I at their rigid obedience when they were young, I even offered them a bribe if they came home with a black mark against their name. They never took my bribe and even judged me as a mother!

As I moved on to secondary school my lack of interest was duly noted by some teachers. I say, ‘some’ because it was not all teachers or subjects I disliked.  In 7956995118_cb083b1b62_mthose classes I found boring, I wasn’t noted for answering aloud, I often ‘forgot’ to bring in the appropriate book, and my homework assignments were sporadic.  This is in sharp contrast to my children who, regardless of whether they like a subject or not, always make an effort.

Today I watched one of my (alleged) children, sort out school folders, duly tidying up her notes and sorting them into correct folders. I hasten to add she was doing this on her mid term break. I was reminded of my own organisational skills. Instead of individual folders for each subject I brought one notepad to school. Within that notepad were the notes for every subject. Unfortunately the pages were not always secure within that notepad, and on occasions some became detached and  became part of the crumpled waste gathered at the bottom of my bag, or just fell on the floor like litter and were discarded. My bedroom also reflected my lack of organisation. Books, notes, clothes and swim gear were strewn about. Today as I shared this detail with my daughter I could see her become agitated by the mere thought of it. When I told her that each night as I got into bed I would kick the duvet up, scattering all books to the floor, I definitely think she got pale.

Later while preparing dinner, I continued to shake my head as my daughter showed my youngest her afternoons work with her folders. Just then my husband arrived home and the book keeper one turned to him and said, ‘Look Dad, what I did today’. He took one look at the beautifully ordered, accounting folder and smiled, “That’s my girl”.

Exactly I thought, that is where it all went wrong!

photo credit: All snuggly via photopin (license)


book profile pic

A new beginning.

I’ve been blogging two years now and have enjoyed every post I’ve ever written. In the past few months I’ve realised the direction I wish to go, which is not to be a commercially successful blogger,(as if it ever was)  but to write, and this weekend, Valentines Day to be precise, my first ever short story was published.

It is part of an anthology of love stories. Yes you read that right, ‘Love stories’. Not exactly a genre you might associate me with. When I got the invitation to write a story for it I admit my first thought was “Romance, I don’t think so”. However writing is all about challenging yourself, and exploring new thoughts and ideas so I began to think ‘maybe’.  I didn’t have a lot of time as the finish date was within days of my invitation, but I’m good under pressure and an idea blossomed.cover for tweets

I remembered an elderly gentleman I had nursed many years ago (who I wrote about here in “The lie that haunts me”) . He was a ‘true Dub’, a rich and rare character. I renamed him and remembered the love I had witnessed as a young nurse, between him and his wife. Before I knew it my story was told. I called it ‘Goodnight Jimmy’, and having written it I realised there were many different types of ‘Love’, which my narrow mindedness needed to appreciate.

So for those of you who may be interested it is available for kindle download here, “The Little book of Love”.  It is a book of short stories, so an easy read which will set you back all of £1.48. If you do decide to download it I’d be thrilled and if you left a review I might burst, or at least raise a glass of wine to you later!

It has really been an eye opener to see how difficult it is to put together a book like this. Writing is such a small part of it, followed by the cover design, edits, and other technical things I know nothing about. Finally there is the promotion. I must admit this part I find so very difficult. Even writing this post is not something I find easy. I dislike asking people to look at what I have done and to actually suggest they buy something, well that’s in another league of mortifying altogether. However a lot of people put huge effort into this book and my story is part of what they are promoting, so it is only right to support their efforts and do my bit.

Now I must go away and get my hair done, as I’m sure an agent will be on the phone shortly looking for more of my work!

****Just an add on, as far as I know this is the link for all of you in the US who are going to race out and buy it! ‘The Little Book of Love’.



Can only a Mother, mother?

Why do I ask? I refer to the arguments currently doing the rounds against same sex marriage here in Ireland, one of which is that if a gay man marries and adopts, their child will be denied a mother. It has prompted me to ask can only a mother mother, or a father father?

How many among us were the primary care givers in our family? How many of us were mothers who worked, but if one of our children became ill it was us who had to leave work to take our child out of creche or school. How many of us put our children to bed because our children wouldn’t go to sleep for our partners? How many of us chose what our child wore, for fear of what sort of a miss matched outfit they might be dressed in if we didn’t.

I put my hand up here. I was that mother. I still am that mother. However does that mean my husband is incapable of fulfilling that role without me. If I were not around would my children have no one to act as their confident? Would they be without all that I give them?

I do not believe that to be the case. My mother has a wonderful saying, ‘You have them as you rear them’. In my case I created a monster. I believed I quietened my children quicker than my husband, so why would I let them cry for longer than necessary? I made their dinner the way they liked it, so why let him do it and see them refuse to eat it? Yet if truth be told I am convinced that if my husband had been the primary carer and spent as much time with my children as I did, putting them to bed more often than I, or getting up during the night to soothe them every night, then they would have been as content to be with him as they are me.

I have watched two families lose their mothers at a young age. Prior to their mothers death the fathers were far from hands on, and perhaps not ideal choices to be left as primary carers. Then very sadly they were thrown in at the deep end and all I can say is “Wow”. What wonderful parents they became. A softness emerged which was never there before. They had no choice but to become mother and father and they filled the roles so well. It has made me believe that we fulfill the roles we are put in, but we can play any role if required. same sex referendum

I strongly believe that two men or two women are just as capable as rearing a child as one of each. I do not believe a mother is essential, nor a father. Yes it is good to have one of each, but is it any better than having two of the same sex?

I have a brother who is gay. A wonderful, caring, loving person. My children love him dearly, and he is god father to my youngest. He was my soul mate as a child and continues to be a significant person in my life. He would have made the most wonderful parent and the world is a poorer place without the child or children he would have reared with his partner of eighteen years. What a team they would have made.

He is however not asking to adopt children, although I would fight for his right to. However he is forbidden to marry. Can you imagine that? Imagine living in a country, a modern western country, knowing you are ‘forbidden’ to marry. Imagine being with your partner for so many years, but no matter how much you care for each other your partnership is not recognised by the state. There are people you will pass on the street who believe you should not be allowed to marry have children, as if you are different. Less than a heterosexual.

Last night in response to a programe on television, I tweeted,

Can’t believe I lived for years with a real threat to the fabric of Irish society, my gay brother. He seemed like such a lovely fella’.

My tweet attracted the attention of another who tried to point out to me that if my brother adopted he would be denying that child a mother. I didn’t bother to argue, as there is no arguing with ignorance, but it has infuriated me all day. Not so much the belief he is potentially denying a child a mother, but the belief that a real family, the only family we should aspire to, is one with a mother and a father.

For it is my belief, that if they had been given the chance my brother and his partner would have done just as good a job at rearing their children as I and my husband have done.

Here in Ireland we are edging closer to the referendum on gay marriage. I am proud we are having this conversation, and that the country is getting the chance to right a wrong. However it is not a done deal by any stretch of the imagination. I just hope the numbers come out and vote, and that this country makes the right decision.

Then I’ll just wait in hope of a big day out!

a love letter

If he could have written you…..

My father died nearly thirty years ago from Motor Neurone Disease. We were all robbed of our future with him. He was a wonderful father, a gentle soul and my Moms best friend. Today I remember my Dad as I write an imagined letter to a loved one, written within the mind of someone unable to move or speak.

The idea for this came from a facebook writing group I am a part of called ‘Imagine, Write, Inspire. One of our challenges this week was to write a love letter, and a fellow contributor further challenged us to perhaps write from a male perspective. The seeds were sown and I wrote this imaginary letter.

I must however point out, that even though this letter is poignant,and inspired by my fathers illness, it would be unfair to either my Mom or Dad to have you believe we lived my fathers illness in misery. Quite the opposite in fact. We laughed all the time together, and greatly enjoyed every moment he was a part of our lives.

However I wonder if perhaps there were a few moments I didn’t witness, such as this one.

My darling Sue

As I lie trapped within this body I think of the letter I would wish to write you. My darling did we ever think it would come to this, that I in my fifties, would be struck down by such a disease as MND?

Today as always you breeze into our bedroom pretending all is well. You chat with me, and fill me in on the mornings news. I listen as you tell me whophoto credit: LeonArts.at via photopin cc phoned and what you chatted about. Then I hear your voice fade. I can sense you by my side, but it is not until you stand over me that I can see you.

Oh my dearest, there is such pain in your beautiful dark eyes. What a sight I must be, curled up as if a child in the foetal position, my limbs cemented this way. Am I drooling? Darling please forgive me if I am?

Earlier I heard you argue with Jessica, doors were slammed, two like minded souls who regularly find themselves on opposing sides. Do you know above all our children, when I watch Jessica walking about the room I see you my dearest. I see you in the way she smiles, in the way she laughs and in her strength, and looking at her it is as if the hands of our clock are turned back thirty years. During my days of endless hours, I lie here and I remember Christmas 1954 when we walked hand in hand in Herbert Park. I took a deep breath and asked you to be my wife, and without hesitation you accepted.  July 1956 our first borns arrival the first of the five. How blessed were we? As the hours pass my dear this is how I spend my time. Remembering so many wonderful moments from our life, before…

Oh my darling Sue, what I wouldn’t give to speak to you once more. What would I say if I could have just one more conversation alone with you? I think it would be safe to assume I would tell you that I loved you, with all my heart. That you, my darling, were without doubt the love of my life. I would tell you how much I have enjoyed our thirty years, and the many days and nights we laughed together.

I can feel your despair today Sue, as you sit beside me holding my hand. My heart feels as if it may truly break. I hear you, stifling your sobs. Please darling don’t cry. You lower your face and pick up my useless hand, I feel your warm skin against my frozen, clawed fingers. What I wouldn’t give to open those fingers and caress your cheek. I am helpless as I feel your tears fall against my skin. Please Sue hold my hand there a while longer.

You move so I can look into your eyes once more. As I gaze at you, your tears spill over. You lean over and place your face close to mine, cheek to cheek. I close my eyes and inhale your perfume. I hear you sob,

“Oh Sean, my darling, I love you so”

Hearing you sob I feel my own tears falling. They are for you my beautiful Sue, for I know you can never hear the words I speak in my heart to you each day.  So many letters such as this, written for you, but never read by you.

So instead my darling I will send you my tears which I hope can tell you all that I cannot.


photo credit: LeonArts.at via photopin cc
photo credit: Photo5_red_ribbon via photopin (license)

Operation Transformation.

Those of you who read here regularly will know that tonight is the night. Operation Transformation! In a little over two hours I will be discarding my jeans and jumper and donning my finery for my husbands belated work Christmas party.

If you have read my post ‘For one night only’ you will know I am highly traumatised by the whole occasion. My friends are howling with laughter in a not very supportive sort of way, my children are mildly embarrassed on my behalf and my husband is away with the fairies and totally oblivious to my trauma. He even suggested I wear what ever I’m comfortable in!

Well if that were the case I would wear what I have been wearing all day, and for most of my life.. a pair of jeans.

So for the preview.
Firstly the contrast…
Here are the boots I’ve been wearing happily all day, quite a contrast to the Cinderella sandals my friend loaned me for tonight. Very high heeled sandals may I add.

Killer heels!

Killer heels!

operation transformation

My comfy boots

photo (26)

Here is a hint of the dress, well the top of it anyway.

I’m afraid that is all you will get to see of it, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, trust me it will do me far greater justice. There may be photos appearing on facebook but I’m thinking of chasing through the courts anyone who ‘outs’ me.

I will have to get dressed to leave shortly as it may take me an hour or more to totter from the car park to the venue.
Wish me luck for tonight I really could do with a drink for medicinal purposes, but drink and those heels may not be best advised. Deep breath and off I go.


My life on twitter

Do you tweet? Do you understand twitter? No? Well join the club. From what I see I am among the very few who tweet for my own entertainment. I do tweet my post as I publish it but I don’t retweet it at different times, nor do I schedule tweets, in fact if I’m being honest I don’t even know if you can schedule tweets! I have some understanding of hashtags but usually forget to use them.

So why am I on twitter? For no other reason but to amuse myself at night. Here is a small glimpse into the nonsense I tweet. Looking back today I discovered that I am much lighter entertainment on twitter than I am here on my blog. Oh and a word of warning, I do seem to tweet about wine quite a lot.

Exercising lots tonight. Put my wine glass just out of reach. Lots of stretching involved. Think I should make an exercise DVD. Have seen worse.

I said ‘Yahoo, am alone in the house tomorrow for the first time since Xmas’. Eldest said, I’m home too, what will we do?

Lost my phone in a taxi in Douglas, Cork last night. Have you got it? Give it back you fecker

You know you are up too late when the dog is sitting looking at you with a look that says, Please can I go to bed now?

Just discovered the letter ‘r’ on a movie does not stand for ‘regular’ or suitable for 12 year olds! Bedtime.

4yr old at my daughters gym today, “I’ve got a big rash on my belly”… “Why?” “Cos I put a lot of glue on it yesterday”

Watching Maleficent. My son said, “That’s a really dark movie” my youngest asked “Oh will we be able to see it?”

My youngest said, “When I grow up I think I’ll be a teacher, but another teacher  will come in to the class to do Maths.

Conversation with my son tonight. Mom did you ever leave a baby buggy outside a shop. Yes. Was it not robbed. No the baby was in it.

Youngest proudly told us today that old spelling rule, ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘p’.

There is nothing like the day after a night out to remind you what age you are. Feeling 100 now and that’s an improvement on earlier.

My OH regularly says, Christmas always works out perfectly. Ever wonder why you fecker?

When I get a random new follower on twitter I wonder what book or business they are selling. I never wonder do they like me?

Husband and son are watching a box set of 24. “Have we seen this episode”. “no” Ten minutes later, “We’ve seen this”.

Ever have that feeling where you get such a fright you  feel physical pain… then you realise you’re not out of wine after all.

Watching the movie ‘man on a ledge’. Think he must have been watching the Eurovision Song Contest.

My youngest daughter was told today she had ‘potential’. She came home all buzzed. Now two hours later she asks, “What is potential?”

Just found the chocolate I was keeping until later. It’s melted to the bottom of my laptop.

Disaster. My fridge just died and I am so worried my next glass of wine may be warm. The kids are worried about milk and meat. They haven’t a clue.

My kids have gone to bed and left the remote control on the other couch. After all I’ve done for them over the years!

My creative writing class is not going as well as my creative reasons for not writing.

So there you have it, my life on twitter in all it’s glory. I hope you enjoyed it. If you are on twitter I’m @trickearney if you fancy joining me there.

photo credit: Ollie the Twitterrific Bird IMG_2637 via photopin (license)