Dare to hope

This morning, a big purple truck pulled up and dropped off six dumpsters. It was exciting enough to get the kids -- even the teenager -- out of bed. Four are purple, and two are green. That's right, garbage and recycling in our little village. The driver informed us that our bin day is Monday.

But lest we get too excited, my visiting brother reminds me that in most places you can take your water glass to the tap to fill it. And then I had to remember to buy credit for the second mobile dongle so I wouldn't have to share the Internet connection anymore.

And then the boys went for a walk and came back to let me know that the hotel was going to be closing on Sunday-Wednesdays beginning July 4. That's right, at the height of the tourist season, the hotel is cutting back.

Bathtub pictures

I spent a good part of the last three weeks putting together a multimedia slide show for the graduating class. The retrospective takes all of 17 minutes to watch, but took days of sorting through pictures, videos and audio of school events, outings, and just plain classroom snapshots.

Part of the slide show involved wading through baby and toddler pictures provided by the parents: The teenagers were relieved that no bathtub shots were included. We showed up at the farewell party with our meager potluck offering knowing we would not starve, with 68 megabytes tucked on a memory stick in our pocket.

By happy coincidence, my dear husband had used the same USB key to take some representative shots of our Irish adventure in to his team at work. Because of the vagaries of digital photograph numbering, the kid-focused slide show led straight into our favorite bathtub picture:

While we were gone, summer came: the verges have grown into wildly lush overgrowth obscuring the previously muddy edges, making the narrow lanes seem all the narrower. The sweet little lambs are nearly the same size as their mommies, both through their own growth and their mothers' encounters with the shears. And the days are excruciatingly long--particularly as we struggle with jet lag-- with the sun not really going down until nearly 10:30 at night, and rising with loud birdsong at 3:30.

Perspective is everything, and we realize that we are spoiled. My veg box supplier has informed me that the European avocado season is over, and she quite rightly will not purchase them airfreighted from Mexico. The roadside stands with Wexford strawberries are out, and new potatoes spill out of the bins at the grocers. We will simply count the weeks and eat spuds and strawberries and ice cream.

For the weather has turned nice as well, which helps our mood even as we resume our windmill tilting: less than 24 hours after arriving in Ireland (after a mad dash in Heathrow and the by-now routine delayed baggage report), our Internet connection simply dried up. The golf resort is miraculously still in business, so we can trek over to the hotel and scab off the connection there for as long as our batteries hold out. But the backup dongle solution provider seems to be having problems as well, which means we must forgo voice communications until one of them gets their act back together.

Missing

Word on the street is that people miss the blog. I would count myself among them. I'm also missing my long walks along the waterfront and down the lane to pick wool off of barbed wire fences where the sheep stick their heads through to nibble at the greener side.

There are a number of reasons why this space has been static. Faithful readers may have noticed a comment posted anonymously that reproached me for my quasi-complaining about the infrastructure situation. I understand that that person may be hurting in their own ways, but I've never had very thick skin, and the words were hurtful. I found myself sitting down to write to dear friends and family, only to find my voice stifled by the what-if this-is-taken-the-wrong-way doubts by someone who doesn't know me. An essay about the weather service, which I believe to be populated by accomplished rheumatism readers (they are too accurate for it to be scientific) is out for the time being. I briefly considered making this a member-only blog, but readership is above their limit. Gratifying, but puzzling.

We've also been dealing with continuing infrastructure issues here: when we returned from vacation, the rubbish bins were piled high; it took a week of calls and emails to the landlady, and magically the bins were emptied. Two weeks ago Sunday. She assured me that there would be regular pickup, but regular apparently doesn't mean weekly. After the bins were emptied, we went out and filled two garbage bags with the stuff that had been blowing around the village: the torn bags and blowing trash are back, with bags piled high again, being ripped open by the stray kitties.

The water situation has improved only marginally: Eddie the plumber finally managed to make it out (while we had guests, we had to work hard to convince him we'd rather be interrupted than not be able to use the tap), and we now have a functioning reverse osmosis filter on the kitchen tap (that's what the mysterious third knob on the sink was!). It means we now have water we can use for cooking and washing vegetables, but it's still not drinkable, as we have no ideas of the level of contamination. Alfred continues to carry water down from Dublin so we have something to drink.

There have been a couple of hiccups in Internet service, with it being down a bit here and there, but (touch wood), it always seems to come back. The golf course has a tournament booked over next weekend, so that may upset the status quo when they leave, but we'll have to deal with that when it comes. There's always the dongle!

And then there's been work. A mountain of work, keeping me translating for two weeks solid, even after turning down contracts. I always joke that paying work keeps me from getting things done, and here it is: I still have two jobs to deliver, but I'm writing this instead! I'll just sleep less.

As I write this, it's Saturday morning, bright and early, and the house is still quiet. We went to bed exhausted last night, without resolving what/where we are doing this long weekend. We might end up staying in a castle near Cavan (which has a great parade, we hear), we couldn't find a room in Waterford for the fireworks tonight, we might find a farm near Cork, or we may just stay here and save vacation days. (St. Paddy's falls on a Tuesday, so about half the population is taking Monday off as well; we're undecided still!)

But by far, the thing that's been weighing on our minds is the rapid deterioration of our arrangements back home. Back in February, the house sitter noted that the house seemed cold. I gave her a few pointers and asked her to tell me if that helped, or if we should get the boiler man to come out. I heard nothing, and assumed the best. But I was also hearing nothing about incoming mail (we had agreed on regular reports and calls), and with the internet down on our end, I had no way of knowing if she was trying to reach us or failing. Tax season is upon us, and I need to know what was coming in.

Long story short, she got tired of living in a cold house and being asked to actually do as agreed in exchange for her free rent; Two weeks ago she let me know she was taking an apartment at the end of May, and would stay until we were back then, to give us time to replace her. One week ago (after friends jumped in to help with the mail and noted that the house seemed empty and cold) she admitted she was no longer sleeping at the house, just popping in every other day for the cat; Three days ago she let me know she was going to be gone for two weeks for spring break and the backup neighbors would be gone too; and yesterday she announced she is moving all her things out this weekend to make room for the new (as yet unidentified) sitter.

Our entire stay here was precluded on having someone at home to take care of "things." Indeed, the first thing people asked when we said we were going away for a year was, "what about your house?" After figuring out there were schools for the boys, securing a house sitter was what sealed the deal. Now we have a house where we have to get the heat working in absentia so we can get a housesitter in --in absentia. We all know how much fun it is trying to meet up with a repairman, who gives you a window and then changes it at the last minute, and that's where we are, except I get a call from their office asking if I can meet the guy three hours earlier. Well, no I can't, but perhaps if they can reach the really good friend who's doing me a huge favor by meeting up with him, maybe she can. So of course, they missed each other. Maybe next week.

And maybe next week I'll find someone responsible to move in, rather than try to put together a rota of kitty care and mail sorting by amazing friends that I want to keep as friends. Because I'd much rather be writing about how incredibly green the fields are right now, the couple of lovely mild days we had, where it was a breeze instead of a chill wind whistling down the vales; about the incredibly cute lambs popping out with the same frequency as the cheery daffodils, which both come in an incredible array of shapes and sizes and seem to have springs in their legs (the lambs, not the bulbs). And how much fun it was to have a passel of kids eating takeaway pizza for someone's birthday and how the boys got my car washed by the Dunlavin fire brigade and it was already dirty a week later. Those little joys that make you forget that taxes will shoot up in two weeks, but isn't it great the lads are playing in Croake Park and wasn't that the funniest song you've every heard, mocking Ryanair (now Urine Air) for announcing they would charge for using the toilets on their flights. Because I'd much rather be living here rather than trying to deal with not living there.

Maybe next week.

Tuesday meanderings

It's a bit ironic, that in a country where so many things just don't work well, that some things work amazingly well. There are days when we are ready to pull our hair out over the inability or lack of motivation make things work. We have developed a few working theories:

1. Just because it's working now doesn't mean that it will keep working. In practical terms, that means not throwing away the customer service number, and buttering up any technician who comes out to your house with a cup of tea. You'd better be nice to them, because you'll probably be seeing them or talking to them again. And again.
2. There is a code for time estimates. If someone apologizes and tells you it will take a few days or even a week to do something, it will be done much earlier, maybe even within hours. However, if they say it will be sorted (that's Irish for "taken care of") by the end of the day or even next week, you are in for the long haul.
3. Time isn't money. Time is time and most deadlines are patently false. The world won't end if you don't meet them and go home instead. You only need money enough to pay for a round every now and then.
4. It's about human connections. This is a corallary to #3. Your friends will buy you a round even if you can't pay today. Talking--that is speaking about subjects of human interest and listening to them as well--to people is how things get done. Plan to chat about the weather a bit before you ask them to shut off the water that's spewing into the crawl space or move their cow from the road.

Yes, this is on my mind, as I watch the golf course groundskeepers plow the road around the estate. I'm scratching my head, trying to figure out why they are bothering now, when the sun is shining and the snow is clearly melting, and where they were last week, when the road was nearly impassable. My guess is that they couldn't get out here to do it, and that someone important (maybe a banker or the owner) is coming out to have a look today (they can't play golf in the snow). Or maybe not, since they gave up halfway through the parking lot that no one uses anyway. Of course, in the process, they've spread ground ice over formerly bare macadam. See #1.

It's also on my mind as I rush through tasks to take advantage of a fairly good connection speed on my mobile dialup. The broadband has been out since last Tuesday, and with bad roads, no one could get out to work on the problem until last Friday, when they promised they would have it sorted out before the weekend. See theories #1 & #2. (I'll stop adding numbers now, you get the point, and this is, after all, a meandering, not a well-crafted essay.)

One thing about having snow on the ground is that you can tell who has come and gone by the tracks to the doors in our small village. And it means I now know for certain that the postman really only does come out once or twice a week, and then only if there's a enough post in his bag to make it worth his while. The good news is that one of the days last week he brought my passport back with its extra pages, so the Moroccans will have a place to stamp it next week. Now if the connection will just come back so I can reserve a lovely romantic riad in Marrakech, we'll be set.

Thoughts of a vacation (which will be without laptop and children, by design), immediately cheer me up. It puts me in quite a charitable mood (unless you are a representative of the broadband "provider," a misnomer if ever I heard one). There are quite a few things about this country that work well, and still manage to be charming in spite of it.

Roads: I know that people make a great deal of noise about the state and width of the roads, but I see them as an example of things that work--well enough. Think about it: if you only lay down a narrow band of pavement, there's much less impact to the surrounding area in terms of runoff, fewer taxpayer Euros spent on contracts, and fewer construction delays for commuters; easements, which only serve to keep solicitors busy anyway, are hardly needed. There's enough room to squeeze by if you meet a tractor, and if it means you have to actually have to hang up and pay attention to your driving, that's a good thing. I recall reading that Irish roads are actually safer than many other European countries, which tells me something is right. Potholes are also a good thing, in measure: they slow you down (see safety, above, and add in fuel savings). The county does work at it, but it's like taking care of an older house, it's virtually impossible to catch up, but you do keep at it. Every now and then, the pothole truck meanders through our 'neighbourhood', and the lads chuck a few shovels full of cold asphalt into the worst offenders. There's no hotline to call, no database and no controller determining which holes to fill on which date: the lads can figure that out for themselves when they're on the road.

Customer service numbers: If a number begins with 1-800 in the States, I immediately set aside a half hour and steel myself to make the call. I know I will enter voice jail, and resign myself to having to call at least twice to get the right menu options in the right order. I despise companies who put the same song on a loop, because I will have it stuck in my head for days after listening to it nonstop for 20 minutes on speakerphone. My kids taunt me with the Verizon theme. But when I see 1 850 in front of a number here, I'm learning to relax. Not only is it a free call, but most often, I get an Irishman or woman with a lilting accent and a great sense of humour, and I rarely have to push any keys to get them--they actually answer the phone! What's more, they usually take care of things in a matter of a few minutes. I've never needed more than 5 minutes on a customer service call here. And no Muzak. Really.

The library: At first glance, it seems a nightmare, being limited to five books and two CDs, especially because I see something interesting there every time I turn around (I've rarely met a book I didn’t like). But in this case, it turns out that unpredictable computers work to our advantage. The first thing I learned was that the library's connection to the county system is about as relaible as our internet connection (and for all I know, they may be the same). If the system is down, they just write down the bar code number for the books you are checking out (the youngest librarian has figured out you can write it on the computer so you only have to copy them in instead of typing them in when the system comes back up). Since they can't see if you already are at your limit, you can easily go over it. And when I pointed this out, she smiled over her glasses and said, "no worries, we know where you live!"

There are four librarians at the Blessington Library, and I get the impression that they are good friends who meet up for a drink often. Together they dream up all sorts of things, bringing in recitals (traditional music) and exibitions (vernacular architecture of Wicklow county is the current one). Emboldened by their success, they decided to launch a knitting and crochet café, creating a space for chat and getting a few rows done. The first group met yesterday, and I was thrilled at the multi-generational aspect: everything from a mom with two very young children (whom the elder librarian delighted in entertainng for an hour so the mum could chat and teach crochet to her neighbor), a couple of grandmothers, one working on a very traditional Aran, another who wanted to finally learn how to knit, since her granddaughter is learning. On our way out, we notice that the librarians have set up a Valentine's display of brown-paper wrapped books with heart tags. "Are they naughty books?" asks one knitter. "No," says the librarian who is struggling with her first chain of crochet, "they're blind date books--though some have naughty bits!" Laughter all around. And I think we all left with a plain brown wrapper tucked in our bags with a ball of wool.

Megalithic

Dear Mom,

We are in the midst of a very stressful week; it seems every day has brought another big item to think/worry about: I got home Monday from three days in Miami, and tried to sleep off my jetlag in one night. I did 11 hours, and feel like I could have done more. Then Tuesday, our Internet connection went down (again!) right after the inauguration. We missed the parade, but at least we got to see the main event.

Wednesday I spent half a day getting my Internet dongle working--it took a trip into town to reload the card. It's up, but it's considerably slower than our primary connection, so we're back to not being able to make phone calls again. Then Marcus cam home with a message from his German teacher: the teacher has assumed we didn't want a parent-teacher conference, because he wasn't going to be there next year. As if this were a "throwaway year" for our kids!

The following day was the Microsoft announcement. Things are being done on a voluntary basis here, with every employee being asked to consider whether they would like to take advantage of a very generous severance package (seven weeks pay per year instead of the one in the US). If the numbers are as good as they sound, it is tempting. But we have school enrollment packages for Marcus and Danny on the table, and are trying to figure out whether we could manage that without work. It's quite a bit of pressure to make that kind of decision in one week! Throw in a bit of rumbling from the nonprofits I volunteer for, and I'm ready for a vacation.

Vacation. Oh, yes, there's also the whole story with getting our passports in order to go to Morocco for our anniversary: turns out Alfred's needed renewing before we go (they want it valid for 6 months, he has 4 left on it), so he spend nearly a full day at the embassy (missing the announcement broadcast from Redmond in the process-NOT the day to be out of the office, you say?); I needed extra pages in mine (down to two blank ones), and about a half-hour after I sent off the right forms and my passport, I realized I had forgotten to send it registered post. [Insert forehead slap here.] Guess we should take out travel insurance--as well as actually booking some plane tickets and a place to stay!

Friday I had my first violin (actually fiddle) lesson in ages. A definite high point, but it exhausted me. In a good way!

As you can tell, I'm feeling overwhelmed. We still have some outstanding issues from moving here as well--the tax people seem to have lost our form, so we're paying emergency tax (42%), which means we're constantly short on cash. Did I tell you the electric bill was €780 for two months? That's about $400/mo. just to heat the place and take hot showers. And those were the relatively warm months of October & November...

Love,

C

***

So, what do you do after a week like that? I suppose I could have buckled down and made lists and had deep discussions with my spouse, and for about half a day, that's what we did. Then we decided to take a vacation. Lucky for us, we don't have to get in a plane to go somewhere exotic--we live here! So, we piled into the Megane, and tooled on south.

The neat thing about Irish maps (inaccuracy aside), is that they have little red notations on them for places of interest. Lacking a cohesive plan, we revert to our time-honored method of entertainment: we search for a high concentration of red writing on the map within an easy drive. Look, we say, there's a stone circle, and we've never been to Donard.

Now, we know from experience that things on the map are often completely overgrown and invisible to all but a trained archaeologist, access might be completely blocked by large bulls snorting, or the heavens may open up and pour, leaving us reading from the guidebook while wiping circular peepholes in the car's steamed-up windows. But today, the gods (or the little people) were with us.

We figured we'd aim for the Dwyer-MacAllister cottage, so we took a likely turnoff, signposted by the Office of Public Works, affectionately known hereinafter as the OPW. About halfway to where we think the turnoff is, we stop and ask for directions, for this is part of the experience. Alfred has a nice chat with the fellow pumping petrol outside the general store, and tells us we must turn back, for we have passed the stone circle.

We find it, the Castleruddery stone circle, a fine double henge (you'll have to look it up if you don't know what that is), easily accessed through a farmer's field. There are the requisite gnarly-rooted trees around it, and even an old farm equipment in the corner of the field. The boys have a field day with the sheets of ice on the trough.

The sign for the circle states that there is an old motte and bailey around the corner, and we can see it from where we stand. We pile back in the car to see if we can get to it, but it appears to be in a farmer's fenced field, though there is a stile and an OPW sign. We park, and the farmer comes out to chat. Hilda is putting in the last of the tulip bulbs, her husband is at the market, that's where I recognize the name (18 acres of organic veggies!); they're open for sales on Thursday and Friday, yes they know our son's school, and do have a walk through the field to the motte, the bull is in another field right now. Her kids put down their chickens and guide us through the maze of trees to the top of the motte, which gives a lovely view of the River Slaney below, swollen with the rains this week. We marvel at how lovely a childhood, to have not only pet chickens, but a real castle in your backyard.

Two for two, we wend our way through the vale to the cottage, where Mr Dwyer gallantly drew fire so Mr MacAllister could escape the English troops. The cottage is whitewashed, thatched and completely closed--until June. No matter, it has been a lovely day and the kids have fun going through the side gates--we joke that they are designed to keep the fat tourists out, as they could never squeeze through.

We figured we were tempting fate (and the weather gods) to try much more, so we meandered home via back roads, and took St Kevin's path (squeezing under a fallen power line was fun) up through Hollywood and home, where our neighbor Tommy is just arriving home as well. Two neighbors outdoors at the same time means time for a chat, and we leave edified with his incredible regional knowledge. Seems he not only grew up around here, but he worked on the map, the one with the little red writing. He ducks indoors and hands us an old volume that enumerates most of the monuments on the Emerald Isle. I add a hunt for a copy in the bookstore to my list.

I greet this week a bit more rested, better able to deal with what comes my way. Danny is home with sniffles, and the plasterer is set to come by to fix the hole the the plumber left.

A desk!

When we started to think in earnest about this adventure, we realized that much of it would be an exercise is prioritizing: just what is important enough to pack and bring with or pursue once we got here? Conversely, it was an opportunity to shed the excess: if we do without it for a year, can we do without it altogether?

Well, after a month of moving my laptop (a must have, given my line of work) back and forth from side board to kitchen table and back again each day, I learned a few things:

• Optical mice don't work on glass tables
• Food and keyboards don't mix
• Reshuffling piles of paper every day is extremely inefficient

The painfully obvious answer is a desk. If this were Seattle, or any other large city, I would head to IKEA. But it's not open in Dublin yet (long story, buy me a cider and I'll tell it to you), so we decided to trek to Bristol, combining a good visit with a lightning shop at the big blue box.

The other hurdle is that this tiny house has four sofas in it (no, I'm not kidding), and there was no way to get even a token desktop in. Our very cool landlady graciously gave us the key to the other house in the village (number 36) so we could swap out furniture. We figured out that by removing one large coffee table and turning one sofa 90 degrees, we could sneak in my tiny desk.

Of course, I also had the trek to Florida and back last week, so assembling the desk was one of the things that just didn't Get Done. But with a calm moment during the week last week, and patience with a screwdriver (I miss my drill, but not enough to buy a new one), I have a desk!


Astute viewers will also note the laundry rack. Yes, we have no dryer, which is something I sorely miss, as the amount of laundry produced by four people in a muddy place can be prodigious, and we're only barely keeping up. One load a day is the maximum, since that fills the two racks, which need at least a day to dry. We have discovered we can speed drying marginally by turning the rack in front of the radiator.

Eagle eyes will notice a white thingy poking out one side of the computer--the Omnitel guys assure me that it will be just a few more days or so until they can get the broadband working. In the meantime, I invested in a USB dongle that gives me a mobile broadband connection to the tower on the hill. The pipeline is smaller, but has been very reliable, and can even carry a voice call without a hiccup. Which means you can call our Redmond number, and if we're not asleep, we'll pick up and talk to you. While sitting at the desk, no less!

Car vs. Internet

Short version: Ireland is like French underwear. It’s so lovely it takes your breath away, but it’s incredibly impractical. Up to you to decide what matters most.

Long version:

Alfred reminds me that I have left everyone on tenterhooks: what ever happened to the car? And our Internet connection? Time for an update.

I am slowly but surely distinguishing a rhythm to the week: Monday, people are straggling into the workplace, a bit disoriented from the weekend, and they manage to catch up on the latest with their colleagues, and start having a look at the work that awaits them. This is the day that a few phone calls and appointments are made for later in the week. Between the Irish work ethic (variable) and communications infrastructure (variable), this takes the better part of the day. A few wee bits might get done, but it’s basically just planning for the week. A call to the Internet provider reveals that yes, there was an outage over the weekend, gee they’re sorry, but they’ll put a tracer log on our line. Call back later in the week.

Monday is also the day I am faced with a decision: which car to use to take Danny to school. Alfred hitches a ride in with Paul, leaving me standing there with two sets of keys. The Land cruiser is an automatic, but it’s also huge, completely filling the spot between road and stone wall. The Clio, sweet and cute, takes up half the space, but is manual. I tried to drive it last week and my hip ached for hours afterward. I pocket the Land cruiser keys, do some hamstring stretches (hope the neighbors aren’t watching), and climb in the Clio. She handles well, has a great sound system, and there’s actually space left when I meet an oil truck going the other way. Silently wish I’d had one more week to car hunt.

Tuesday is a bit better, with mechanics and technicians finally finding a space in their calendar for the weekend cases. I pop into town for some groceries, and stop in the library to ask if they have wi-fi. The librarian gives me a blank look, and says, oh no, we’ve nothing like that, but you’re welcome to use the computers here. Guess the library won’t be our backup connection. This is also the day when the mechanic deigns to look at the car, pronounced it healthy, and changed its transmission (=gearbox) fluid. He got it done in enough time to make a call to have it picked up. Car exchanged effected, Alfred arrives home and drops the keys in my hand. He is my hero. It’s a cute little thing, but, Marcus informs me, a minivan nonetheless. Oh, well, it’s only for a year, and it is blue.

Wednesday the rain continues, and I have a date with the relo people. When we first arrived, they escorted Alfred to the PPS office to get his magic taxpayer ID. The agent recognized the relo escort, and waved them to the front of the line. We asked if I could have the same VIP treatment? Sure, they said. I confirm the documents I will need to apply for myself and the kids, and meet up at the appointed hour with Annalisa, who it turns out was hired two weeks ago, and who has a Yahoo maps printout to find the place. Right. I smile, figure at least she’s paying for the gas to drive up to Dublin. Well, she must save a bundle, because I don’t think she went over 40 miles an hour the whole time: what I used to drive in 45 minutes takes her an hour and a quarter. We get to the building—in the mall where I shopped when we lived at Citywest, so I had to get her there—and I get in the line (=queue) for reception, since I figure that’s where they hide the number ticket machine. Annalisa wanders about for five minutes, and then determines the same thing. The good news is that there are only three people ahead of me: the heaving masses are there for the dole, which is a different line. Ten minutes later, at the counter, I breeze through my paperwork. But, says the capricious fellow, I need a letter from the schools stating the boys are attending. Lovely. Another hour and a half on the road (we stopped by Citywest to pick up mail (=post) that still straggles in.) Hooray, Alfred’s car title is there!

I’m back in a bit of time, and take myself to Newbridge, where I find an interiors shop that has some bed linens, so Alfred and I can make our bed properly. While I’m doing this, Alfred is spending time on the phone with the tech, who is regaling him with stories like the fellow who had an outage every weekday from 6:30-7:30: seems a truck (=lorry) driver parked in the line of sight every morning and had his breakfast. The tech makes a few changes to the frequency, and confirms in the tracer log that we had another outage Tuesday evening. No kidding!

I pick up Danny, who informs me that he urgently needs a black tie, so he can be a Garda for Halloween and around the house. Oh, goody, something more to do. At least it should be easy to find a tie in a country full of school uniforms.

As I gear up to go back up (again!) to Dublin to get Marcus, the aura of a migraine surprises me. I locate my homeopathics and lie down for a half-hour before I hit the road again (this time at 60 mph). My head hurts, and traffic is bad. I get to school late, and we end up grabbing sandwiches for supper and eating them in a parking garage. By the time we get home, I’m past wiped out, but at least I can make my bed before I lie down. Marcus wants to know if I can fix the light in his bathroom at 8:30 at night. I say no, and collapse.

If Wednesdays are usually fairly productive, then Thursdays are the day that Things Get Done. With Danny in school for his long day (he’s usually out at 1:30; Thursday it’s 3:00), I can plow through things that pile up. I go to a morning coffee at school, where I finish knitting a mohair kitty for Izzy’s seventh birthday party the next day. As I arrive home, the postman hands me the missing bank epistles, so I can dig into the pile. Got the online banking done, organized myself, waited and waited for the mail to download. Takes a half hour. Clearly, we are not out of the woods yet. I manage to write a report to send off, Danny arrives home, and the connection goes down. Before the report got sent.

After supper, we decide to drive into town to accomplish three things: 1) find the GAA pitch (that’s a sports field where they play Saturday morning), 2) find out what the Motor Tax office hours are (can’t check online!); and 3) pick up some apples and orange juice. The pitch is beautiful, the motor tax office is open when I need it to be, and we run into Paul and the kids at the store (hey, it’s a small town!). We also swing by the library, where Alfred notes someone using a laptop. We exchange a knowing glance, I turn on my PDA, and lo and behold, it detects a wireless network called “Blessington Lib 1.” That sly old fox at the counter was deceiving me! Alfred works his magic, and she fesses up: there’s a connection, but the county official won’t give them or anyone else the password. I’m not making this up, really. We finagle the name and phone number of the evil man, and decide that Alfred the Tenacious will tilt with him. Marcus in the meantime, has logged onto a library computer and checked his email for the first time in a week. He even gets a start on his homework, downloading files to his USB key. I told you that Thursdays were productive!

It is now Friday, and the connection remains absolutely, completely dead. I am typing this in the conservatory, and will get myself together and head into town where I can check my email on the library computers, mail some letters, and pick up my soy (=soya) milk from Harvest Fare. I’ll also duck into the office and see if I can manage the motor tax.

But it is Friday, and the weekend is nearly here: people will be leaving the office early (it will be worse next weekend, since the following Monday is a bank holiday), and this will be put aside until Monday. Danny is off to a birthday party this afternoon, and the weekend is slated for farmer’s markets and exploring out backyard.

There is, after all, plenty of time to Get Things Done next week.