by Grainne 

Speed bumps.  Don’t you just hate them?  I moved recently when I took up a new job and my route to work, to the shops and to just about everywhere involves traversing dozens of the damn things several times a day. 

I don’t hold with the argument that they are necessary to prevent motorists from speeding through areas where slower speeds are required for pedestrian safety.  All drivers do is speed up between them, to make up for lost progress and for spite.  In built up areas where traffic congestion is an unhappy fact of life, making motorists negotiate over specially placed obstacles in the road as well just adds to the misery and annoyance. 

Then they’re laughingly referred to as part of ‘traffic calming’ measures.  ‘Motorist enraging’ measures more like.

The damn things have proliferated over the past few years as neighbourhoods clamoured to lobby their local county councils to install them in the interests of road safety.  It seemed like every road and street wanted their very own ramps.   And boy did the County Councils acquiesce.   That’s when there was money to spend.  Now that local authorities are mostly broke thankfully we won’t see too many new ones put in.  There’s supposed, by law, to be a standard regulation height of 70mm for the things, but the reality is that they differ in height, width and the material used.  Poorly designed ones cause damage to tyres and suspension and erosion and damage to them makes the problem worse.  Many are now pitted with gouges, uneven and scarred.  And there’s no money to fix them.

Two of the worst are an affront to the lovely village of Straffan in Kildare.  Both seem to have been constructed of some very uneven paving-type bricks or perhaps it’s a surface that was laid on top of tarmac.  In any event they make for an extremely uncomfortable passage because as well as the type of material used, it’s disintegrating in parts. One of them is the most elongated ramp I’ve ever had the misfortune to pass over and I have to do it twice daily.  The annoyance is compounded by having to then negotiate the other one in quick succession.  Now there’s a shop, a church and a pub across the road from each other at this point and obviously pedestrians crossing from one side to the other have to be safeguarded but really they should just have thrown down timbers with nails attached and be done with it.

Not that those metal type ones that are bolted into the ground are any better.  They feel really harsh even though they’re a lot lower than the other type. 

A few years ago, as part of another profession I worked in, I sat in at a County Council meeting where the engineer explained that each speed ramp cost €100,000.  Why so costly for what was essentially a bit of tarmac or cement, the County Councillors asked.  “Signage” they were told.  It was obligatory to erect signs in each direction to advise motorists in advance of their presence.  Now that was several years ago and it was still a lot of money.  Imagine if the money spent on the damn things had been put into road repairs instead?

I wonder if those who so indignantly demanded the installation of ramps have ever regretted the Council’s obsequious compliance?   Maybe when, instead of the smooth hum of traffic outside their homes they now have to continually suffer the sounds of vehicles slowing down then accelerating again, once over the bumps they rue their hastiness?  Have they had reason to curse the damn things as motorists do?  I’ve heard of some cases where people went back to their local authority looking to have them removed.  By the sheer numbers around it doesn’t seem like they’ve had much success.

 By Aine

A relative recently needed to move to Dublin and set about looking for rental properties in the desired location,i.e. within walking distance of bus or Luas, and within driving distance to work.

People will tell you that you can have your pick of rental property at the moment, with rental prices at an all time low but the reality was anything but.

Dealing with various letting agencies proved frustrating – many did not want to show properties after 5pm.  Some people are still working, despite the recession and can’t take time off whenever they please to go view properties.  And you’d think staff at the letting agencies would also be a little more mindful that there’s a recession in progress.   Sometimes they took  a phone number and promised to get back but never bothered.  It can only be assumed that business is so good that they know they will let the property anyway.

After.viewing some 20 or more properties, a common thread appeared.

The rents were extortionate, the properties in poor condition (no en-suites, no proper heating, sub-standard furniture, small kitchens to name a few shortcomings.)

Yet, if you were to believe the letting agencies the public were falling over themselves to sign on the dotted line.  Do you think €1,200 – 1,400 per month for a dated three bed semi in outer suburbia is good value for money? I certainly don’t. Coupled with this the letting agencies were demanding large deposits, PPS numbers, references, and a separate bank account to be set up by the renters from which the utilities would be paid. Heavy demands I think you might agree.

So when my relative finally chose a house and moved in he was shocked to find the house had not been professionally cleaned as was agreed with the letting agency. The fridge was stinking, including a rim of black fungus around the seal inside the door.  The dated carpet hadn’t seen a Hoover in months. The kitchen floor tiles were dirty and sticky, the curtains hanging down off the window.

The house smelt musty but horror of horrors the bathroom was a nightmare!

A non-slip mat in the bath, when removed, uncovered hair and soapy scum!!!!

Several bottles of Dettol, bleach, and heavy-duty chemicals later the place was much improved but it was done by the new occupiers, not the ones whose obligation it was to have it cleaned.

From dealing with landlords and letting agencies in the past I know how fond they are of holding onto renters deposits, to cover cleaning costs, utility bills, or supposed damage to property.

But holding on to deposits and then reneging on an agreement to have the place cleaned before new occupants move in is just plain wrong and greedy.

Welcome to Dublin our capital city – where the rip-off mentality is still very much in evidence.

Landlords have a lot to answer for.

 by Grainne

Evening courses (or Adult Education as it’s now called) time has rolled around again and, as usual, I’m perusing the various brochures that I’ve received.  I do this every year, look at the courses on offer, get all excited at the prospect of learning some new skill or hobby or just doing something for a bit of diversion of a winter’s evening. 

It used to be the choice was limited – it was either flower arranging, beginners French or learn to play the guitar.  Oh and ‘Know Your Car’.  The only thing I ever wanted to know about mine was that it’d start when I wanted it to and get me wherever I wanted to go.  What goes on underneath the bonnet is not something I have any interest in familiarising myself with.

Now though the number and variety of courses is staggering, everything from desktop publishing to a dozen different languages (speaking in tongues anyone?), artistic endeavour from sculpture to portrait painting, and, it looks like a whole lot in between.  Which adds up to a lot of choice and even more indecision.  Will it be kick-boxing or playing the tin whistle?  Advanced psychic development (yes really, you can learn this of a Wednesday evening in County Kildare) or creative felt making? 

When it comes to dancing I can learn to kick up my heels or shake my booty in a variety of ways.  Didya all know for example that line dancing is still in vogue?  Me neither.  I can learn to belly dance, salsa dance, hip hop or learn burlesque.  Now that sounds racy enough to excite my interest.  There’s also ballroom and Latin American dancing but it seems to me there’s enough exponents of that kinda thing strutting their stuff on dance floors at weddings and parties without me joining in.    There’s even Bollywood dance but I’m not a big fan of the tinny music that accompanies it, it sort of jangles on my nerves.   There’s curtain making which I’d rather stay home and watch Nationwide while doing the neighbourhood’s ironing than endure.   There are exercise regimes of all kinds but organised exertion has never appealed to me. 

There’s something called Sugercraft Cake Decorating which sounds frivolous enough to appeal but given my sweet tooth I’d probably eat the ingredients before they got near a cake.  Other choices are to learn to write a novel or body spray tanning.  There’s an introduction to criminology course offered but I’ve a good, if jaundiced, idea already how the criminal justice system works in this country.                                                                      

    At the moment it’s a toss up between Taking Control of My Life and the FAS Safe Pass Programme.  The former, which over ten sessions sounds like an excellent way to divest myself of all my bad habits including ingrained martyrdom and learn to improve my relationships, be more assertive and self confident and manage my time better.  All for €150.   The thinking behind me taking the FAS (didn’t they have a name change lately?) Safe Pass Programme is that they seem to have had everyone else in the country do this course at this stage and I’d hate to be the only one without a safe pass card when that sudden upturn in the construction industry they must be expecting comes along.

The one drawback with such courses is that they’re held at the coldest, most miserable time of the year.  Which means leaving the house when the fire’s on and reruns of Four Weddings US and Come Dine with Me compete to tempt me to vegetate instead of educate.

by Grainne

There’s reason to be grateful to bid farewell to what laughingly passed for an Irish summer this year.  The weather which threw rain, gale-force winds and cold at us is just one. 

Now I’m as keen a gardener as the next person (not very in other words) so I welcome the approach of winter when I don’t have to feel guilty that I’m not out mowing the lawn at least as often as my neighbours, pruning shrubs and weeding.  Damn weeds that grow far more abundantly than any flowers I ever sow.   Outdoor maintenance, i.e. painting, gutter-cleaning, that sort of stuff can all be happily back-burnered for a few months.

     The obligation felt to host al-fresco dining or barbecues goes away.  Eating indoors, wasp and insect free, where napkins aren’t blowing around and it’s a bit warmer is more my sort of dining experience.  I laughed this summer every time I saw people sitting huddled at outside tables at restaurants.  I could count on one hand the number of times it must have actually been a pleasurable experience.  When are we going to give up on the pretence that we are a warm Mediterranean country? 

One of the best things about winter is that we can go home in the evenings, slouch on the couch, watch crap telly and not feel a bit guilty.  The pleasure-factor rises exponentially if the wind is howling around the house and hailstones are lashing against the windows. 

There are even more basic considerations.  What woman doesn’t welcome the arrival of tights weather when the need to keep legs shaved is greatly reduced?  The need for fake tan fades, if you’ll pardon the pun. Bodies don’t need to be exfoliated, or hard skinned heels attended to for soon summer sandals will be replaced by sturdy shoes or, even better, boots.    What woman doesn’t sigh in relief as the chance to clad herself in layers replaces the no-place-to-hide summer skimpies?  You can hide a multitude under a winter coat.

Good hearty comfort food to replace salads with big portions a must to ward off the cold is another plus. 

Best of all though is that fat people’s bare flesh and people’s ugly feet are out of sight for a few months.

I’ve already put away my summer clothes and stockpiled a sizeable quantity of what must be one of the best design inventions ever – opaque tights.   We’re talking heavy duty 80-denier ones here ladies.  Plus two pairs of sturdy boots.    So, summer I bid you farewell and thanks for nothing.  Autumn; “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as the poet John Keats would have it but could be more accurately described as “leaves slippery underfoot and monsoon like conditions” I ask you not to dally.  Just bring on the winter.  My fire and couch are waiting.

by Grainne

We go back a long way me and these two women.  Back to when our kids were small, a time long before the term ‘yummy Mummy’ was coined, much less the lifestyle  embraced.  We wouldn’t have had the money to be ‘yummified’ anyway, had we a desire to. It was first recession time, the ’80s. We had a lot in common, three offspring each, two lads and a girl apiece, roughly the same ages, our husbands played football  – a lot – and we became firm friends as we negotiated our way through the usual milestones and landmarks; childhood illnesses, First Communions, Confirmations, back-to-school times, school holiday outings, summer camps.

The kids grew up, we evolved, two of us moving from the estate where we’d all lived in close proximity, the same two of us also changing careers a couple of times over.  Sometimes there’d be gaps of months in between us chatting, never mind meeting up.  The bond remained though.  That’s all the more surprising when you consider how different we are in outlook, temperament and character.  The great thing for me was that they were both equally pragmatic in their own ways.  They were always able to look at things in a different and certainly more coolly objective way than I, in my quick-to-anger, quick to feel slighted, stubborn and hot-headed way could never be.  So they made great advisers.  And boy did I take advantage of their sage advice over the years. 

One of them, an accountant by profession, would listen (and what a wonderful trait that is to have) then ask questions, appraise the situation in a reasoned and very logical way and then deliver her opinion in her businesslike, no-nonsense manner.   It was always good advice.  The other friend, also a good listener, has a different, but no less effective approach.  She’s very calm and great at seeing the big picture then disseminating it back down into how I, as the injured party, should feel, am feeling and how the two can be reconciled.

I, on the other hand, am too emotional I think, to give good advice.  If my friends are feeling aggrieved, hurt or angry, I just want to cause maximum pain to the offender.  I’m good at sympathising however (it’s been said that I’d empathise for Ireland) and having gotten better over the years at listening, can at least be there to return the support when my friends need me.  Even if my advice (which usually involves exacting some kind of painful revenge) is politely dismissed.    

We met late last year for an early dinner and it was a pleasant evening, all was generally well with family and life, we were all in good spirits and enjoyed catching up.    We met again earlier this year and things had changed utterly. Family difficulties and changed circumstances had been visited upon all three of us.  It was hard to comprehend just how much things had changed for the worst in those short few months.  The difficulties, traumas and challenges we were each grappling with left us in subdued form that night.

We shared words of comfort but there was no mitigating the circumstances that had befallen us.  It was so different an evening to the previous one just a few short months before as to feel surreal.  Unfortunately it was all too real. 

Since that time all three of us have experienced some lessening of difficulties, some improvement in fortune.   I met with both recently, separately, and what struck me most forcibly was that, amidst their own challenges, they still cared to ask about me and mine.  I don’t think I’ve ever valued and cherished them as much as I have these past few months.