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OPENING DOORS

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  Opening Doors I was born after the fireworks during an opera in 1964 and from the off was an unusual child. Having escaped every form of enclosure as a baby and being found at the bottoms of numerous stairs, on window sills and in presses I was christened a Divilskin.   I sat sideways in prams, propped on yellow satin cushions, listening. As an infant I looked like a very old soul. While still a toddler I eavesdropped in cars and relayed information back to the people who were being discussed, much to the mortification of the adults. I always opened doors in other people’s houses, of rooms that weren’t even tidy, and rooted in their cupboards asking can I have this, so I could take a piece of them home .   I was tied into the back seat of an Austin 1100 with baling twine to stop me climbing out the windows and regularly given a drop of the craythur on a dodo to sedate me enough to sleep. As a little girl   I played alone with dolls, endlessly dressing a...
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Frankly Speaking - An Essay - Part 1

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"I like the way you've done my eyes Meeeee shell" Artwork  © MDM I met Frank Sinnott when I was a Communion Child in 1971. I was brought across the road to be given a pound and have my dress admired. I was terrified of a parade of random hairy dogs that lay across the steps of Old Pound House like savage mats. I was almost more frightened of the hairy lad looking out at me from under his wild hair in the hall. He started to visit us, making wildly inappropriate suggestions to my Mother, each of whom had a soft spot for the other.  We were privy to all the comings and goings across the road, from the house going up in flames to Sonny Condell ringing the bell looking for divilment at 3am after a gig. He tried to teach me the guitar but I was more fascinated by the peas in his beard and the newspapers on every inch of the room. As I grew up I began to write, and it was Frank who gave me my first writing gig on his beloved "Boker". This time last year I...
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The One about the Tour with photographic proof

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A Swedish man asked me would I bring a group of his friends around the roads and tell them stories. Things I remember, characters I have met, the places and faces that make up the heartbeat of a town, the social archive, the nuances and nostalgia, that colour the light and shade that life's rich tapestry invokes. I write about memories. I wrote my own and my Mother Siobháns story in Scourged , a memoir  - where  memories unspooled and unribboned  from her mind became copper fastened in mine. So I thought it would be lovely to tell the men the old stories of long ago when I was young, and remember those who went before us, and the legacy they left. He mentioned idly that there would be paper folding money involved. I was in like Flynn. I offer you this time not text, but images ..........as a picture speaks a thousand words. A Jemmy to start A breath of air  The welcome Nervous as young foals the pack leave the Inn...
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