The Clink prison is located on the banks of the Thames near London Bridge. It is (probably) the oldest prison in England and now houses a museum and a collection of hideous instruments of Tudor torture, it seems the various bishops of Winchester were particularly creative in this respect. Amongst the "touch and feel" display of ball and chain, boot, stocks etc, the curators had seen fit to include a chastity belt 
, more about that later.
Since the occasion of my friend Laura and her broods visit from China had been met with the customary "surprise" downfall of rain which caught us unprepared as we emerged from Cannon St station, we had to hastily revise our plans for a boat trip on the river.
Like a company of drowned rats, we looked very much the part as we descended into the ancient gloom of the prison. At least it was dry. Although that hadn't always been the case for the unfortunate inmates who often found their bedding awash in sewage when the basement prison flooded.
Whilst Laura and I grew pale surveying the testament to inhumanity at every turn, the children were in very bouyant mood. Merrily, they stuck their heads in the stocks and posed with their head on the block. Despite their pleading I refused to take a photo of my son cheerily raising an axe to his brothers head. Hate to be a spoilsport, but that is not one I want for my album.
Gabriel, the boy who could put the "fun" in "funeral" got our attention ( and that of all the other visitors) "mum, MUMMMM! look how they strangled people! This is gross!!" We all turned at once. He was wearing a chasity belt on his head. 
. Time to go home...
Holidays are great though. We drove out to the beautiful Chilterns and walked the legs off the darling bubba who was delighted to have his first al fresco wee wee. An experience he is longing to repeat.
We went to a St Georges festival where we were treated to London Pride Morris dancers and a display of jousting by the company who do the horsey stunts for films like Robin Hood Prince of Thieves. Very impressive.
We invited friends over for a seder meal. Brendan ( the 16yo) has been honing his guitar skills and led a few worship songs. The bubs busied himself dipping all the parsley in salt water and declaring it "yummetty"
Yup, holidays are great. But it was back to business today and Gabriel seems to have forgotten how to add up. He said " I remembered it, but my brain forgot" I know just how he feels.
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I am a child of the Irish Diaspora. My father, a farmer from Meath, came over to drive London buses and seek his fortune.As the second eldest son he had no interest in working on a farm that would never be his. My mother, from the north, came over to train as a midwife. As a Catholic, the economic opportunities at home were very slim and she was ambitious for something better. They met over here and married. They were ahead of the game and invested in property and, in time, did very well.
Since I went to a Catholic school, I didn't know many English people. My friends were mostly second generation Irish, Italian and Poles.
I was glad to be Irish. It was a very strong identity. When my parents went out to dances they didn't need a sitter, wherever they went, we came along. Church social clubs, irish society dances... I learned to waltz by standing on my dads feet as he swept me round the floor. I jived with my mum and my auntie Kathleen. I got dizzy doing The Seige of Ennis and being swung round by vigorous auld Paddies.
When we didn't go out ramblers came to us. We sat up into the night with the Bridies and Kathleens and Marys singing the old "come all ye's".
Shyness was not an option. Everyone did a turn. My speciality was The Bold Fenian Men and Last Thing On My Mind. I still love those songs. The musical wallpaper of my life was The Dubliners and Johnny Cash. Even the funerals were fun. I felt sorry for the English.
Things got a bit grim around the time of the Guildford and Birmingham pub bombings in the '70's and anti Irish feeling became more noticeable. We were much more politically aware than most English children of my generation. My father had control of the TV choices in the evening, so apart from Blue Peter and The Six Million Dollar Man ("We can rebuild him...) our viewing diet was Questiontime and Panorama.
For all their Republican sympathies, my parents would not hear a word against the English. England had given them an opportunity that Ireland hadn't. Mostly the English were polite, fair minded people who didn't mind what your surname was if you could do the job.
But so much of the history of Ireland is recorded in song. They wrote a song for everything, the famine, the hanging of Kevin Barry, a skirmish at Boolavogue when the boys from Wexford "showed Bookies regiment how men could fight". One of my ancestors, Sean MacDermott, was executed by firing squad for his part in the Easter rising of 1916. There is a street named after him in Dublin, and a statue of him in his home town in Leitrim. I went with my auntie Breda to the National Museum in Dublin, where we saw his uniform and the letters he wrote. For my brother and I, the romance of revolution was too compelling to ignore. When I was 12 and he was 10 we spent most Saturday mornings in the library. We drove the librarians mad ordering books. His speciality was Wolfe Tone and 1798 and mine was Easter 1916. We were very efficient. I read about my topic and then gave him the digested version and he did likewise.We were freaks, we should have been homeschooled!
My parents found it unsettling. When I wrote Republican slogans in Gaelic on the blackboard at school they thought it was the height of bad manners. By the time I reached my twenties the romance started to wear off. I met some hardened politicos and I didn't like what I saw. Politics is a dead, cold thing, less interested in the truth than in defending itself and winning. It didn't suit me. I realised I was just a girl who liked a good sing song.
Besides, my interest was turning in another direction. I wasn't sure if God was real. I had been brought up singing "Faith of our fathers" but I wasn't sure if I knew what faith was. Three of my dads brothers were priests, Paddy, Peter and Seamus. I'll always be grateful for the evidence of Godliness that I saw in their lives, but I still couldn't fully grasp it for myself. I decided to find out. I told God of my plan, and suggested that if He was there then now would be a good time to let me know.Thats another very long story. But He did let me know.
When Paddy died suddenly a couple of years ago the last remaining invisible tie of inherited religion was cut. I remain grateful for my heritage, but I no longer go to mass. I attend an Anglican church, but I still can't describe myself as a Protestant. My tribe were on the recieving end of bigotry and prejudice and it still feels like a form of disloyalty.I understand why Jewish believers prefer to refer to themselves as Messianic Jews than Christians.
In Christ, the old man is gone. We are adopted into the Royal Family. To paraphrase St Paul, I believe that nothing can outweigh the advantage of knowing Jesus Christ and the power of his rising, that everything else, by comparison, is rubbish .
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Tomorrow we have a full itinerary. We get up at the crack of sparrows (which for me is, well, 8 am- I'm an owl who wants to be a lark) We shall process to West Acton tube and disembark at Oxford Circus at the back of which is Carnaby Street ( beloved of old sixties swingers) . My adorabubble sister in law Shirley works in a salon there, she is a very talented hair clipperologist. We shall call her Teasy Weasy Shirley. Gabriel will be shorn by his doting auntie and then its my turn. If anyone can make a silk purse out of a sows ear it is she. The bubba will have to wait. He has wonderful blonde curly Little Lord Fauntleroy locks that havent yet seen scissors and his daddy and I want to keep them that way as long as possible. Gabriels hair was the same. He was four before he had his first haircut ( auntie S came round to our house for it) and Pat nearly cried, he took photos, it was quite a solemn ceremony, I half expected someone to shout Mazeltov! 
But I digress...After that we intend to visit the British Museum in Great Russell St with my friend Noreen. It is THE most wonderful museum in London. Packed with antiquities ( bit of argy bargy with Greece over some of them) and the building itself is awesome, the great court where you enter has an amazing glass domed roof. I could spend all my visit standing in the great court slack jawed. But I won't. We will see the Rosetta Stone and the ginormous winged bull from the palace of Sargon.We will take a look at some of the artefacts from Ur, and Gabriel will insist on a looksee through Egypt and Rome. This stuff gives me goosebumps, and Gabriel loves it too which is very agreeable of him.
In the evening, Daddy is taking Gabriel and Dominic to see the Arsenal play at Highbury. He's only done this once before, so its another biggie.I think we'll be lying in Thursday morning
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I have to confess, I have a penchant for a certain type of "cruel and unusual" punishment. Do I smack? hmmm, not much, what I REALLY specialize in is wrestling a wayward son to the floor, kneeling on his upper arms ( this makes them PUTTY in my hands) then I dribble, yes dear reader, DRIBBLE on them. OK the aim is not to actually dribble, but to make as though I am about to. At this point, they usually cry out for mercy. Do I grant them mercy? PAH! I say "who is the greatest?" Release is conditional on the response "Mummy!" or "You are!". If they comply, I release them. Sometimes the little rebels then mutter " not" under their breath, but am I deterred? Not a bit of it! I then move to Strategy no.2: I grab a digit, and bend it back....sloooowly.
This even brings my 16 year old to his knees.
But why are they laughing through their tears and their begging? Boys are such a mystery are they not?
I must give credit where it is due.The former technique was taught to me by my own runtish little bro' Tom. He called it "Petrol Pumps"...aaah, those were the days. Many happy memories of dribbling on his face. The latter method? I really don't know, I guess I'm just one of lifes "Intuitive Mummies"
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I have spent far longer than I would like to admit pootering around the blogger forums and trying to work out all kinds of alien stuff, like RSS feeds, trackback and how to attach a photo to my blog.I am still totally in the dark about the first two, but as for the latter 
, I'm moderately flushed with success. These are my younger two, check out my little bunnys red eyes, aw, he takes after his mummy!
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Whilst we do have" friendly" names, my children do also know the correct terms for their various body parts...or so I thought. I must have been a little rough in my haste to get bath time out of the way. As I soaped Gabriel all over ( including the "crevices") he yelped "Ouch! You scratched my tentacles". Wellity, wellity, wellity, I think we've just stumbled on a "New Improved" friendly name. (Oh and by the way, the old one was "Noodles", Passe or what? )
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Today I went to the funeral of my sons friend.
Rory was 16 years old on the fourteenth of March. On the 19th he lost his balance and fell from a window ledge on the second floor. The next day the machine that was keeping him alive was switched off.
Three years ago, on 5th May, another friend Nathan was killed when he was building houses for rabbits out of twigs. A bough of the massive ancient oak he was kneeling under broke off and crushed him. He was on a family outing in Richmond park with his dad and his brothers ( a family of 4 boys too) and cousins and uncles and aunties. It was Mayday bank holiday and the weather was unexpectedly fine ( it had been tipped to rain) The picnic was a last minute arrangement. Moments before many children had been under the tree before running off to play football. Nathan remained momentarily to put the finishing touches to the rabbits house. He was just a few weeks short of his 13th birthday.
He had arranged to go to Rorys house that day, but that was decided against in favour of a family outing. Today Rory, who had grown into a 6 foot (nearly) 3 inch young man, was buried beside Nathan.
Before the funeral his parents took him home and laid him out on his own bed. Devastated friends came to say their goodbyes, they wrote in the condolence book on his bedside table, no "get well" cards needed now, they brought "thank you" cards instead. He kept a photo of Nathan beside his bed, the same one we have.
In our tradition, the body is taken into the church the night before, we call it the Removal. There is a short ceremony at which I had the privilege of singing. He loved the Leonard Cohen song "Hallelujah" ( the one in Shrek, if that helps) The lyrics aren't great, but his mum wondered if we could rewrite it into something more suitable. My friend Catherine and I managed to use a couple of Psalms and play with them a bit so that they fitted the same rhythm and rhyming couplets of the original song.
Today, at the funeral an old Irish priest sang a haunting, melodious, mournful version of the Irish poem " Ag Criost An Siol" ( "To Christ the seed") If I could paste the lyrics in here I would, but it won't work for me and I'm still rather an amateur at this.
The funeral was intensely moving. His parents spoke, his sisters spoke. They paid tribute to an affectionate, laidback, popular, rugby loving son, a protective, loyal, funny and kindly brother
My son is doing fine. He knows that with God, death is not a disaster. But he's shook, we all are.
I didn't expect my first post to be about this. Life is full of joys and tragedies, tears and laughter, and loving can be a very bittersweet thing.
Please keep the families of Rory and Nathan in your prayers.
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