Christmas in Limerick

WHAT a laugh. What a great roaring, bruising, manic few moments of fun that was.

So fast did those four days go past that I still haven't pieced them fully together now that I have returned to my lair in Vancouver. But here's what I do remember.

It was a slice of pure heaven to get a taste of some of the home comforts which had become a distant memory since flying the coop in May. My personal arse groove had almost gone out of the couch in the living room but while taking in the seasonal movies, I left an imprint on it that should be good for another few months.

While the food-gorging and arse-grooving were wonderful though, the best part of being home was seeing the familiar faces. Thankfully I haven't become too Canadian looking in the last few months so my family had no problem recognising me when I walked in the door. I squeeze-hugged them to the point of causing injury and smothered them with kisses.

On Christmas morning, we exchanged presents. My home in Limerick is now fully stocked with Winter Olympics 2010 slippers and Vancouver Canucks socks. And then we ate and o lord how I ate. Mammy had it all laid out just like I'd imagined in my drooling dreams over the last few weeks.

What I didn't eat I brought back across the Atlantic with me. It was a good thing that wannabe terrorist didn't try to blow up the Detroit-bound plane over Christmas using turkey or ham. Otherwise I'd still be getting interrogated by air marshals now. That evening was spent in our cousins house eating the leftovers from their Christmas dinner and playing scrabble. Heaven.

Of course I was also delighted to see a few non-familial faces, the first of which were McGoo and Coynie who brought me out to the races in Patrickswell on Stephen's Day. I had four winners, an unclear number of hot whiskeys and a hell of a time getting reacquainted with my old partners in crime.

That night I renewed acquaintances with many more of my old crime partners, including Scenery - who I berated for having entered into blogging retirement, Larry the Lynx - who had been prowling the plains of South America when I left, Jay Mckay - who is still getting taller despite being well into his 20s, Calamity Kennedy - who was kind enough to throw the party at which I met all the old heads, and many more. Too many to properly catch up with properly in one night but all of whom I was absolutely overjoyed to see.

The 27th was beautiful if only for its laziness. I returned home in the afternoon, having spent the night at the site of the party, and spent the day lounging. A few of my oldest friends called round in the evening to do a final spot of reminiscing and once they left, the time had come to pack my bags once again.

We had time for two stops on the way to the airport the next morning. The first to say a quick hello and goodbye to a beloved grandaunt and the second to buy a Munster Jersey for my new Canuck lady friend. Never any harm to add another member to the Red Army.

Then it was off to Shannon, on to Heathrow and back to Vancouver where the aforementioned friend greeted my weary frame with a warm, welcoming hug. It was wonderful to have been home but also great to be back on the Canadian adventure.

You know your Christmas holidays have started when....

......you start watching the new Star Trek movie at 8.30 in the morning.

Flying home for Christmas!

I WAS going to make this announcement a little earlier but those cantankerous cabin crew clowns over at BA briefly threw a spanner in the works which has since been removed and will now hopefully be used to beat them ferociously.

I'm coming home! Initially I'd hoped to keep this somewhat of a secret until my arrival but seeing as I'm only going to be at home for four days I thought it best to say it now so as to prevent missing out on meeting any old friends during my short stay.

A few weeks back, a gentle anticipatory quivering started inside my chest but it has since expanded into an all-over body tremble of excitement as the day draws closer. The flight home is going to be rough, leaving at 9pm on the 23rd from Vancouver and landing into Shannon at 9pm on Christmas Eve with a 7 hour layover in Heathrow along the way.

But I don't care. I'd travel home on a cart pulled by a three-legged, blind, cranky donkey via Baghdad if it meant getting to spend a few hours at home. I can already taste the turkey, the ham, the prawn cocktail, the pudding, the roast spuds, o Lord the steaming, crunchy, butter-drizzled roast spuds. Just typing about it here has left my keyboard covered in a thick veil of drool.

As well as looking forward to making a pig of myself at the dinner table, I am almost as excited about seeing those who will share the table with me and most likely have to wrestle with me for the food. Without a doubt there have been times when the family have tolerated my presence, as opposed to desired it, but being out of the coop for seven months combined with the shortness of my stay will mean that I will hopefully be granted the status of golden child during my brief return to Ballyneety.

And once my belly is full to the point of necessitating a cesarean (say that 10 times fast) I'm also looking forward to re-acquainting myself with the taste of a proper pint of Guinness in Fennessy's, perhaps after a day at the races in Patrickswell depending on my funds. If I like the taste of that first proper creamy since I left home, I might even have to try a few more, maybe in the White House, or Tom Collins', or Nancy's. I'm an equal opportunities festive drinker and no worthy establishment will be discriminated against.

In between gulps, I will occasionally come up for air and tell anyone that'll listen about life in Vancouver and while the glass is up to my lips they'll hopefully return the favour and recount what scandal I've missed at home since May.

Then, before I know it, the 28th will arrive and I will be gone again with a head full of happy (and in some cases hazy) memories. I don't even want to sleep a wink when I'm home so as to create and store as many of those memories as possible to bring back across the Atlantic with me. Only three days left!

O, to be a wandering mongrel

O Lord, isn’t it just wonderful to be back at work? I can’t think of anywhere in the world I’d rather be than at my desk on this Monday morning as the rest of the world continues to nurse its festive hangover.

My walk to work this morning was along a deserted O’Connell Street. Gone were the usual cast and crew of screaming school children, friendly lollipop ladies, depressed office workers and stroppy-looking college students.

Along the way, I met only a wandering mangy mongrel, whose frothy jaw dropped in shock at the sight of a lone worker walking into the office at 7.30 in the morning on December 29.

“What are you looking at dog? I got Christmas and St Stephen’s day off, some of us have to actually work for our wages, we can’t all be bloody teachers you know,” I snapped.

The scraggly mongrel looked a little hurt at my outburst so I apologised and offered him the remainder of my toast but kept the last bit of cheese to myself. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

“I’m fine thanks,” he declined. “I’ve got three turkeys buried in People’s Park and I’m off to collect a fourth now from an old woman down on Ballinacurra Road.”

I momentarily considered joining the dog on his travels for turkey. How bizarre would that have looked? A man in a shirt and tie, turning up at your front door on all fours with a manky, soaking dog.

“We’re here for the turkey m’am.”

Wouldn’t it be grand though? Flouncing around the place with all the other carefree canines, collecting castaway turkeys at every open bin, not to mention being able to scratch wherever and whenever the mood struck you.

Have you ever noticed how satisfied a dog looks while having a good scratch? I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever felt that level of satisfaction.

The more I thought about it, the more attractive an option a dog’s life seemed. A return to nature, no more 9 to bloody 5, no more deadlines, getting up when you wanted, going to sleep when you felt like it, roaming the streets, chasing cars, barking at children, biting the particularly annoying children.

What part of that doesn’t sound like fun?

I dropped my bag and spun around to call the dog back but he had already bounded 100 yards down the road, head held high, his tail wagging vigorously at the thought of the half-eaten turkey in Ballinacurra with his name on it.