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School Daze 50 years ago a young blonde woman in a green tweed suit walked hand in hand with a big eyed child adorned with a home- made bonnet up a street named School
Which was fitting. Although the big eyed child didn’t know it yet. And was more concerned about which crocheted string of her Nana Mahon’s hat she had to pull to open it.  One released her tiny head, one constrained it lengthily.





                                                     School Street – Photo © MDM


The child had already been christened a scourge,that rip, a divilskin and a changeling baby...... A reputation she lived up to with ease before breakfast, which mostly consisted of her screeching when she was presented with tay and covering a radio in butter with malice aforethought.
The blonde woman was her mother Siobhán and a saint with the patience of Job.
The school yard was thronged with roaring children and Mothers trying to detach their miniscule offspring from the belts of their Poplin coats. A Nun c…

Vonnie Dooley

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Teatime

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It was nestled in the onion skins. And I spotted it at 50 paces.
I love miniscule prods from the Universe to stop mucking about and sit at the keyboard.  A true writer would do anything but write, apparently.  Despite having numerous deadlines,  a Treatment due for a Director for the Adaptation of my book which I have been commissioned to produce, and the tiny matter of trying to corral 3 men in the imminent launch of a Rock Band and their debut album,  I spent days conjecturing about the identity of another author.
Who wrote this list?
On a daily basis I frequent a supermarket where I am known by name to all the staff,  from the Manager to the Flower Guy  -  (whom I breast about the 2 and 8 of the plants and how much can I have them for) -   thus they have become immune to me hanging a Pig umbrella from their Tannoy and doing 87 laps of the store in a vain attempt to recall what I actually went in for. And trying to order bales of briquettes to be delivered when your man is already at…

Shrink much?

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When I was a child I thought I was as big as a Bishop.
A Country Man at a Mart in Enniscorthy complimented my Mother on her first born by saying -
"She's a fine lump of a child, Missus, God bless her!"
And I pressed my cheek to the window pane and  cried silently all the way home
What we were doing watching bullocks being auctioned by a man who appeared to be having a stroke is beyond me as we were and are Townies.
 - from a town of narrow grey streets and soaring spires, of railway sleepers and misty quays, of fizzle sticks and Super Sers, where houses smelt of bacon and cabbage,  Pledge and Vim, with candy striped sunshades on the doors for that one weekend in August when the paint might be ruined.
A time of 3 C's.
Confession. Communion. Céilís.
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Ireland didn't do fat children in the 70's.
On one wage, with children to feed, dress and educate, cars to run - we were reared on Shepherds Pie,  Roast Chicken, Ham Salads, Trifles, Tins of USA Assorted, Bottles…