by Grainne

I’ve been implementing some austerity measures of my own in recent months.  Out of necessity.  With cuts in pay on top of numerous stealth taxes, and more to come, and my outgoings not having diminished to match, something had to give.

In cutting back on my spending I had to ignore the urgings of Finance Minister Michael Noonan to spend to stimulate the economy.  To be fair, over the years, I’ve done more than my bit for the country in this regard.  Friends and family will attest to my penchant for shopping.   Mind you, even if I had been able to splurge in recent months I wouldn’t be the least inclined; not while bankers and bond-holders are getting away with bloody murder, senior civil servants are walking away with exorbitant sums of money in pension pay-offs (many of them to return to the fold as well paid special consultants/advisers with scarcely a weekend in between to draw breath.)  And then there’s those agreed reduced pay rates agreed by the Government for special advisers and other upper-echelon party hacks and then blatantly ignored.

In what was definitely a first for me, I spent an hour and a half inside a shopping centre on a recent Thursday and left with nary a thing.  Didn’t spend a penny.  The place was practically empty; it was just short of tumbleweeds blowing down the centre aisle.  I looked inside the shops and felt sorry for the shop assistants who had no one to serve.  How long can such a situation go on?  It can’t be viable to heat and light stores as well as pay wages when no-one’s buying.

I’ve really embraced this whole frugality ethos, buying special offer lunch ingredients at the start of the week and making them do the whole week.  I’m proud to say I haven’t deviated once, haven’t succumbed to the temptation of dining out.  I’ve gone at my weekly food shop with almost manic zeal, planning meals and making lists.  Gone is my ‘it looks nice, toss it in the trolley’ method of shopping.

I avoided the sales and haven’t bought a single new item of clothing in months except for tights and my saving there comes from now buying only the thick opaque ones which last a hell of a lot longer than the sheer, flimsy ones that seldom made it beyond one wear without looking tatty.  Those are strictly reserved now for special occasions.  And those have been cut back on too – it has to be an awfully big occasion now to warrant a night out never mind a new outfit.

I’m on a mission as regards cutting utility bills – it may be good to talk but it’s expensive too and all appliances are being used far more judiciously.  In fact the dishwasher broke and hasn’t been replaced, I’ve gone back to the old-fashioned way and found it to be less laborious than all that scraping, bending down to stack-and-empty business the dishwasher required.  And it’s done a lot quicker too.  I’m even taking quicker showers – gone are the days of luxuriating under a spray of piping hot water for 10 minutes to 15 minutes.  It’s a quick in and out now.

I doubt that I’m the only one in belt-tightening mode.  Which can’t be good for economic recovery, or jobs.  But what to do with a Government coming at us with a clutch of made-up new charges and taxes on a weekly basis?  Is it too much to expect them to get their heads around the ‘less to spend, less spent’ reality?  Yeah, I guess it is.

By Aine

Following  Minister of Transport, Tourism and Sport Leo Varadkar’s glib comment that we all could still afford a holiday as the Budget would not be that bad comes his Fine Gael colleague Finance Minister Michael Noonan remarking that our emigrants are leaving to see the world “as a lifestyle choice”. 

Well Minister Noonan, maybe where you come from in Limerick that is the case but I know hundreds of emigrants who have left these shores and it had nothing to do with “lifestyle choices” and everything to do with trying to keep body and soul together, finding a job and making a life for themselves.

They made the choice to try and get a job rather than stay on the dole in Ireland and face a very bleak future with little or no job opportunities, and the banks and lending institutions either snapping at their heels for payback of negative equity mortgages or with no prospect of getting one in the first place . Oh yeah and then Social Protection Minister Joan Burton adds insult to injury by also remarking that, for some, being on the dole is a “lifestyle choice”.  Not for anyone I know, it isn’t.

As I prepare to go to Australia to visit my youngest daughter who has been there for the past three years, I am incensed by tactless throw-away remarks coming from our present Government.

My daughter would dearly love to come home, misses home greatly, but there is no future for her here and therefore she must remain on the other side of the world where at least she has a job with a steady income and a promise of better things.

I know several young people who are currently in Australia picking fruit, hardly a “lifestyle choice”, these are young, well-educated, bright kids who found they had no future at home after leaving college.

It’s easy for you Michael to make such disparaging remarks from your lofty perch in Leinster House.

       I suggest that you take a trip out to Dublin airport and do a quick survey of the people leaving where I think you will find that many of them feel they have no alternative but to take a plane out of here.

Current emigration is splitting up young families, with many young men working in England, leaving behind partners and young children, to try to gain employment to keep a roof over their families’ heads back home. You should be commending them, not insulting them.

When you mention Australia of course it brings to mind images of sandy beaches, warm sunshine etc. but a recent survey by the Irish Independent revealed that of the 70,000 people who emigrated last year, the destinations they chose to call home were the UK, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, the USA and Germany.

Another 40,000 are expected to emigrate this year.

Can I suggest that in future all Government Ministers engage their brains before insulting the very people who are willing to get up of their arses and take charge of their lives, in whatever part of the world they think offers them the best opportunity.

by Grainne

The outcome of the public consultation undertaken last year by the Minister for Public Enterprise Brendan Howlin on how the State can save money makes for interesting reading. 

Its seems that public servants were major contributors to the exercise, suggesting ways money could be saved by having their allegedly more work-shy colleagues accountable by linking pay increments to performance assessments.

It wasn’t surprising that many of the suggestions related to cutting spending in social welfare. While there is undoubtedly a case to be made for investigating welfare fraud and cutting off people who are illegally receiving benefits, such widespread condemnation of the system must be galling for the thousands of newly unemployed people who, if given the choice, would prefer to have their jobs back than be on the greatly reduced rates of income the State pays them to get by. Last year, for a period between April and June I found myself unemployed. I spent 12 hour days submitting my CV to companies across Ireland for a variety of jobs, many requiring a lot less experience and expertise than I had. I would have done anything to return to work. Before receiving any payment, which took several weeks, I had to furnish the Department of Social Protection with a large amount of paperwork and two forms of photographic ID, my passport and driving licence. Four weeks after payment began I received a letter from them, telling me to present myself at my nearest FAS office to see what assistance may be available to me in finding work. Failure to turn up, I was warned, could result in my payment being stopped. I was incensed. 64 job applications, six interviews and three fulltime and one partime job offer later, I took the best of the bunch and thankfully returned to the workforce. Not everyone is as lucky.

Of all of the submissions made, I wonder if anyone suggested a ban on Government Ministers refurbishing their offices as Brendan Howlin himself did shortly after taking over as Minister for Public Expenditure and Reform last year. As Aine wrote on this website at the time, the man charged with reducing Government spending had over €47,000 spent on setting up his offices, including €47 for a sign for his toilet door and the same amount for a key for that door. He also spent money having his desk raised. He wasn’t the only Minister who had money spent on refurbishment and/or changes to their offices but it was ironic in his case given that in December’s budget he was announcing €1.4bn cuts in day-to-day expenditure and a €755M reduction in capital spending. “As unpalatable as it might be, we must make some difficult choices in order to contribute to the reduction of the budget deficit” he commented, sanctimoniously.

Here’s a suggestion that I should have probably submitted at the time. That the practice of allowing judges, politicians and others who have the cost of being transported to and from work paid for by the taxpayer be stopped immediately. Likewise with meal allowances for these people. The working public is expected to get to their jobs and home again on a daily basis under their own steam at their own cost. Similarly, they are expected to provide food for themselves from their own funds. It’s a joke to have politicians, judges and high ranking civil servants, who have far more generous pay packets than the average PAYE worker, getting such free perks. Except that no-one’s laughing.

By Aine

Last Friday the Central Bank took over the running of Newbridge Credit Union, appointing its own Manager.

Apparently there was concern over the way the Credit Union was being run and the Financial Regulator wanted to “safeguard” peoples deposits.  The concern was that the Credit Union hadn’t put enough money aside to protect against potential losses on property-related loans.

I am a member of Newbridge Credit Union. So are my two sons and one daughter.

Today I rang Newbridge Credit Union to see could I speak to anybody in charge as I was concerned about the money I have on deposit there.

Guess what? They weren’t answering their phones!  Instead a specially recorded message directed me to their website which was of no assistance at all.

So, this financial institution is in trouble but instead of allaying the public’s fears they decide to ignore them instead and make themselves unavailable.

Ok then if thats the way they want it I shall be at the door in the morning as they open at 9.30am to remove my money pronto.

Newbridge Credit Union…. behaving like a bank. Welcome to Ireland 2012. Ni feider linn.

        TSB bank today, 12.45pm. I needed to talk to the Assistant Bank Manager. I rang my local branch but was directed to a call centre in Dublin where a gentleman informed me that he would email the man himself and ask him to phone me back! (still waiting for a call back and its now 19.28pm.)

What happened to the good old days when you phoned your local branch and could actually speak with the Manager? Seems not anymore. Customer service ain’t what it used to be.

Speaking of the TSB, I know a person who applied for a mortagage recently with this bank and were turned down because they had overlooked a Visa bill of seven euro some time previously.  Seven euro?  No, that’s not a typo, a paltry seven euro. Not 700, not 7,000, not 70,000, not 700,000, but a mere seven euro was the stated reason the person’s mortgage application would not be entertained.

It was an oversight on the persons side, they’d been on holiday when the bill came in and weren’t back in time for the payment date and so this little matter came back to haunt them when all their financial details were being trawled through by the mortagage advisor. Be warned TSB customers.

Another chap I know recently went to the same bank to enquire about a mortagage. The mortagage advisor asked how long he was in his current employment. He answered a ”couple of months” wherby the advisor informed him that he must be with the same employer for four years.When did this new rule come into play?

Seriously folks are the TSB making up the rules as they go along? No, sorry sir you are bald…. no money for you! You live in a house with an uneven number? Definately no money for you! You are forty but not married and you expect US to give you a mortagage?  Watch the door on the way out loser! You have two kids…… you definitely wouldn’t be able to pay back the repayments on a mortagage! Goodbye!

You have been banking with us for only 30 years….. no hope of getting a mortagage until you are with us at least 50 then we will turn you down on grounds of old age!

I know people who bank with different banks and they dont seem to be a whole lot better.

In my humble opinion it would seem that the banks don’t like the Financial Regulator looking over their shoulder now and so are acting like truculant brats and their recalcitrant attitude means that the customer is suffering.

Is it time to go back to the days of old when you got you wages paid in a little brown envelope in cash?

That way we could tell the banks to f**k off and  Joe Public would be in control of his own finances again!

 by Grainne

1. Go to see a kid’s 3-D movie.  There’s plenty of them about and they’re great fun!    
2. Read the Bill Bryson book ‘A Walk in the Woods’ and laugh out loud.
3. Stand outside on a cold night, look up at the stars and realise that we’re all part of something that’s much bigger, and greater, than all of us.
4. Look at the amazing patterns the gossamer makes on shrubs, trees, even the clothesline early on damp mornings.
5. Soak in a hot bath with a couple of spoonfuls of Epsom Salts added.  Simple, relaxing, effective.
6. Look back over old photograph albums.  All our happiest memories are recorded there and it makes us realise how many there were.
7. Look out for the first of the new-born lambs, coming soon to a field near you.  One of the most life-affirming sights of the year.
8. Across the countryside that hardiest and most delicate of flowers, the snowdrop, is making an appearance.  Magic.
9. Don’t listen to any news or current affairs broadcasts or read news for a while.  Choose not to hear bad news.
10. Listen to your favourite music, played loud.  Guaranteed to lift the mood.

by Grainne

A belated Happy New Year to you all.  Forgive our tardy response to its arrival here at Viva Diva.  It’s due not, alas, to time taken to recover from lengthy or wild New Year’s celebrations.  Rather it was a marked reluctance to drag ourselves into a year that while maybe not being quite the ‘annus horribilis’ last year was, is going to pose plenty of challenges.  We were scrabbling around, trying to muster some joie de vivre with which to greet you before stepping into 2012.  The most we could manage however is some grim determination not to let all the doom and gloom about pervade every facet of the next 359 days. 

            Because, while it may not be all untrammelled joy, along the way there’s bound to be some happy times, pleasant events and   joyous  moments.  That said, the challenges can’t be underestimated with most people experiencing some fall off in income, resulting in changes in their personal circumstances.  Has the combined attrition on this country of mass forced emigration, forced unemployment, the further erosion of an already depleted health service, the practical cessation of major infrastructural projects including our roads network and public transport system, tax increases and income cuts and a general reduction in people’s lifestyle been considered by Government I wonder?  Much more than our economic state has been diminished, much more than our economic recovery is at stake.  The nation’s very psyche is being damaged.

It’s true to say the present Government has a horrendous task in trying to clean up the mess of the previous Fianna Fail-dominated ones.  But hammering people already under pressure with extra charges while letting the banks, speculators and builders get away scot-free is unconscionable.  Yes, the present Government has cut the salaries of their own ranks and senior civil servants but there are still way too many on too-high salaries and others walking away with kings’ ransoms of severance packages. 

Take the household charge for example.  It has to be a contender for the cheekiest stroke of the year in that we are expected to voluntarily sign up for it in a ‘turkeys voting for Christmas’ sort of way!  I’m seriously opposed to this charge and the full-blown property tax that the Government has already said will follow.  Those who’ve always worked were hit with the income and health levies (now combined into the new Universal Social Charge) now we’re to be penalised for striving to provide a roof over our heads rather than looking to local Government to provide one for us. 

Anyway I’m not paying.  Apart from being opposed to it in principle, I’m not the home owner.  With a mortgage on my home still, technically it remains the bank’s property.  So I must remind my bank manager of his obligation to self-declare it and pay the charge. 

We’re told that just over 14,000 people have signed up to pay the charge ahead of the March 31^st deadline.  Who are these people who are so eager to volunteer for another tax that they’ve paid two months early?  Are the figures to be believed?  I, for one am not swallowing it.  Not when I hear Environment Minister Phil Hogan trot out the old chestnut that “it’s not fair if somebody pays and others don’t.”  Their plan to track down payment dodgers?  Ride roughshod over Data Protection rights by using ESB records to pursue non-payers.  The Data Protection Commissioner said that was a “disturbing development” as well as an “extension of the power of the State” to gather information on citizens from private companies.  It was intended for use only in individual cases, he said. 

Remember the Poll Tax in England back in the late ‘80s?  The mass marches, the trenchant campaign of opposition?  Many believe it ultimately led to the downfall of Margaret Thatcher. 

Here, we’re told, people are queuing up for volunteer for it.  When did we become so passive? Remember this is just the precursor of a full Property Tax.  On top of car tax increases, a VAT increase, DIRT tax increases, cuts in social welfare, cuts in child benefit among others, the brunt is once again being placed on a lot of people who weren’t responsible for the property bubble and didn’t benefit from it.

In these early days of 2012 it’s hard to conjure up any optimism but regardless of what happens on the national economic front, personal circumstances will hopefully conspire to provide us with enough of those moments of personal achievement, satisfaction, happiness and pleasure that’ll see us through.  A greater capacity to appreciate such positives will also stand us in good stead.

And, if all that fails we could get busy planning a revolution!

Thank you to all our loyal readers for dropping in to read the blog during the year.  We hope you’ve enjoyed and been entertained by it.

We wish each and every one of you a very Happy Christmas with time to spend with family, to have fun, to relax, to recharge, and especially to savour the Christmas spirit.

This country of ours is struggling so for many it’ll be a tough Christmas and there will be many families without their sons, daughters and grandchildren this Christmas, lost to emigration, but we possess  hope, optimism and resilience and no-one can take that away.  We have the capacity within us to make ourselves, and those around us, happy, during these days.

Best wishes from Aine and Grainne.

by Grainne

We were four years old, identical curly-haired twins.  It was decades ago but I remember that Christmas Eve with a clarity that’s as crystal clear as the icy air that day.  After months of our father being away in England working, he was coming home.

We rose early and begged our mother to let us go outside to watch the road for him.   Busy cleaning and preparing the house for his arrival, she warned us that he wouldn’t be coming for hours yet, in fact she wasn’t sure when exactly, but nevertheless bundled us up in our warmest coats, hats, scarves and gloves and let us outside.

We lived on a road of identical red-bricked houses, the gateway to   each framed by two tall red-bricked pillars.  We climbed up the bars of the gate to get up onto the pillars, one of us on each side, and began our wait.  The road up into our estate was a ways down from our house and it curved up around the corner.  We fixed our gaze upon the spot where we knew we’d first catch sight of him, when he arrived.

It was bitterly cold, our limbs grew numb and a couple of times our mother came to the door, entreating us to come inside.  Through our sitting room window we could see the fire blazing, the coloured lights on the Christmas tree twinkling.  It was tempting but we didn’t want to leave our post. 

People on the estate passed up and down during the course of the morning, going about their business, going to the shops downtown.  All stopped to speak with us as we were something of a novelty in our area at that time – there hadn’t been twins born in our town for a number of years.  We told them proudly that we were waiting for our Daddy and that he was coming home on the boat from England.   Mammies slipped us sweets and smiled; Daddies slipped us penny and tuppenny coins and patted our heads. 

Lunchtime approached, and there was no sign of our Dad.  Mam came to call us in to eat and, despite rumbling bellies, we were reluctant to leave our lookout posts.  Eventually she insisted and we went inside, immediately enveloped by the warmth.  Even so we ate hurriedly, so afraid were we that he’d come while we were inside.  My mother tried to keep us indoors as long as she could, encouraging us to warm ourselves at the fire but we were anxious to get back out and resume our wait.  She explained that his journey entailed a long train ride, then a long boat journey and then another train down from Dublin.  They would be crowded on Christmas Eve and he might have to wait until later to catch one.  That’s why she couldn’t be sure of his time of arrival.

Back outside on the lofty perches I thought about how well our house looked, all ready for Christmas.  I loved our coloured Christmas tree lights.  Paper decorations hung from the ceiling, as was the custom of the time.  Everywhere was spic and span.  A big turkey, glassy-eyed and plucked, hung upside down from the door of an outhouse at the back.  Our mother’s rich plum puddings, decorated with sprigs of holly, the ones we’d been allowed to help stir, and savour the aroma of, were ready in the kitchen.  Letters had gone to Santa long before, for modest things, as money wasn’t plentiful.  All that was left to make it a perfect Christmas was for our beloved father to be home with us after an absence of many months.

We were too young to understand why he was away, how in the early ‘60s work in Ireland was so scarce that many men went to England to find work on building sites.  In our father’s case, he’d gone to Lancashire  and boarded with his brother, who had a large family of his own.    A gentle and shy man, who came from a rural background, the transition to the stark industrial landscape of northern England must have been a big culture shock for him.  Meanwhile our mother was left to mind us and our older brother.  She explained to us, years later, how women on the estate, including herself, would all be waiting for their men’s money to arrive from England.  If it hadn’t come by the end of the week (and delays were commonplace) the lend of a few pounds would come from one of the other women, to be repaid when it did arrive.  Many families survived, she told us, through the benefit of that arrangement.

The afternoon wore on and we got so stiff and sore that we clambered down from the tall pillars a couple of times and walked around to bring life back into our frozen legs and feet.  People passed on their return journey from the shops.  “Still waiting?” they’d ask us and we’d nod that yes, we were.

As dusk began to fall I was seized with a fear that if he hadn’t come by the time it got dark, he wouldn’t come at all.   I said it to my sister and made her anxious too.  A knot of fear started in my stomach and began to grow.  Dusk was fading, giving way to an ink-black, starry sky.  No words were exchanged between my sister and me now.  Neither of us wanted to give voice to our fears.    I remember being close to tears.

Then, suddenly, a figure turned the corner.  Instinctively, I knew it was him.  So did my sister.  We jumped down from the pillars, our numb legs and feet refusing for a minute to move but then they did and we took off down the road.   “Daddy!” we shouted as we ran towards him.  He stopped when he saw us, laid down the big heavy duffel bag he was carrying.  Waited for us, arms outstretched.  As we barrelled into him, he scooped us both up in his arms.  We hugged him tightly, covered him in kisses.  He leaned down, picked up his bag and managed to carry it, and us, back to the house.  He put us down while he kissed our mother and we clung to his legs.  Later a surprise was unpacked from his bag for us (to our mother’s chagrin as, if she’d known in advance no doubt she’d have commandeered them for extra Santa presents); a gun that lit up and made noise for our brother and for us, slippers with little rabbits heads on them, a complete and delightful novelty to us.

Santa’s arrival letter that night was still eagerly awaited but, as far as we were concerned, the most important man in our lives was home with us for Christmas and that’s all that mattered.

by Grainne

Over the years I’ve been on the giving and receiving end of hospitality on Christmas day, inviting people to our home and being invited to others for Christmas dinner.

As a young married woman living in Canada and preparing to spend our first Christmas away from family I was so grateful for the kindness of another Irish family living in the same city that we’d become friendly with, who invited us to share their Christmas dinner with them.  A couple of years later when our first child was only weeks old, we decided to stay at home and invited a young man from Newfoundland to dine with us.  He worked in the lumber camp with my husband at the time and wasn’t going home for Christmas.  We became good friends with our neighbours in the northern Ontario city where we lived and were kindly invited to Christmas dinner at their home on a couple of occasions.

When we came home we also returned to the tradition of the family Christmas dinner at my parents’ house.  Another year we were guests of a younger brother and his wife and young children and spent a most enjoyable Christmas day in their company with other family.  As more children came along though, and got older, we opted more often to stay home.

Over the years we’ve had my mother-in-law and my husband’s aunt to dine with us.  After our mother died I decided, with my father’s health failing, that a good idea would be to bring our whole family together for a big family Christmas Day dinner.  In my house.  Over 20 people, including seven small children, were catered for.  With some deft manoeuvring, extra tables and chairs set up and plenty of practical help from my sister and sister-in-law, we managed and had a hearty dinner and plenty of good cheer.   It was fortuitous as it was to be my father’s last Christmas.  He died the following April.  I took comfort in the fact that he’d spent his last Christmas amongst us all.

  After my parents died my youngest brother and my aunt joined us for a couple of Christmases.

We also had a friend of my youngest son’s one year as he didn’t have any other plans but our most unusual, and colourful guest, was a Chilean man who resided with us for a time.  Guillermo (or Willie as he was known to us) was a cook by trade and so added some extra pizzazz to our more traditional fare.  We enjoyed his company as much as we did his culinary skills.

This year it’s just family and that’s nice too.  The workload will be lessened certainly, which makes for a more relaxing day.  The reaching out though, to share home and a meal on this most special of days, will be missing.    Still, when children grow older and the excitement of Santa is no more, there comes a time when the gathering of adult offspring, the return home from abroad or wherever they are more usually residing brings a new and different joy.  With so many families parted from their sons and daughters this year because of the recession, I take great comfort in knowing mine will be with me around the Christmas table this year.

by Grainne

Patricia Quinn seems to have been a busier housewife than most. In addition to her housewifely duties, she had an inordinate amount of paperwork to do.  Specifically signing her name to papers she claims to have had no idea about. 

Mrs. Quinn, wife of bankrupt businessman Sean Quinn, would have us believe, or rather wanted the Commercial Court to believe, that she didn’t realise she was signing her name to loan documents for millions of euro from the former Anglo Irish Bank.  Taking the “ignorance is bliss” stance to a whole new level there. 

Mrs. Quinn’s barrister, Bill Shipsey’s contention, that she was a housewife with no business sophistication was, not just insulting to every housewife in the land, but plainly ridiculous when you consider the sheer amount of companies she was director of (63 Quinn group companies in this country and 28 in the UK) and secretary of 10 or so more. 

For her part, she would have us believe that in while signing so many bank loan applications she was in danger of getting RSI, all she had responsibility for was the weekly grocery shop and looking after the household expenses.  Mind you I suppose that would have put a lot on her plate, considering the €3m loan the bank was trying to recoup was supposedly for improvements carried out to their family home.  That’d give you plenty to think about alright; how much of it to spend on interior decor, soft furnishings and what kind to render the abode ever more palatial?

Mr. Justice Peter Kelly who presided over the case, didn’t need the wisdom of Solomon to know not to swallow the fairy tale he was being fed.  He said in summing up, that even a glance at the documents she signed would have shown “all but an illiterate person that it was some form of borrowing from the bank.”  He also said she was advancing the “startling proposition” she was a “cat’s paw” for her husband with no clue about documents she was signing and clueless too about being a director and company secretary of so many companies.  Cat’s paw?   Tail that wagged the dog more like. 

Mrs. Quinn did admit that her supposed ignorance of her business dealings was “embarrassing”.  She could have added “enraging” too, given that her husband lost more than €3bn on a calamitous gamble on the same bank’s share price.   Maybe, if she’d been more clued in, instead of being “clueless” as she’s been described, she could have saved him that folly.

Now the money must be repaid by the wife of the man who was once the richest man in Ireland.  Deciding the weekly groceries and the household expenses is going to get a whole lot easier for her from now on.