Now You See It - Now You Don't

Will someone tell me why - when it's so easy to catch a cold, a bus, train or plane, small ones misbehaving, cheating spouses, lying politicians, robbers and rogues, someone staring, a clip across the ear, a cold sore, a cricket ball, a good night's sleep, a catch-you-later promise, inappropriate infections, computer viruses, hives, hair lice and a tiger by the tail - it's impossible to catch FRUIT FLIES!

The Eloquent Senator Norris

Women have a tough time in politics. Two recent examples - Lapgate, so called because Tom Barry TD pulled a reluctant and surprised female colleague onto his lap in the middle of one of the most important and contentious issues to come before Dail Eireann  - the long-over due legislation of the X Case which will allow abortion in very limited and specific circumstances. The other more recent example was David Norris's verbal attack on Regina Doherty in Seanad Eireann when he accused her of 'talking through her fanny.'

The following poem is a tribute to the eloquence of Senator Norris.

   

The Eloquent Senator Norris 

Oh, David, you’re a terror when you decide to fire

Verbal bullets primed with misogynistic ire.

A woman has a ‘fanny’ – that fact we can’t deny -

But it is not a mouthpiece with which to make reply.

You may be incandescent but is it right to hog

The floor of Seanad Éireann with a sexist monologue? 

In fact, your own vocabulary is not exactly sparse

Yet when have we accused you of talking through your arse?

You speak about linguistics and discussions academic

But sexist rough and tumble has always been endemic

In the Dail and Seanad where bombastic eloquence

Is used as substitution for a dose of common sense.

© Laura Elliot 

Knees Up In the Dail Bar

Sometimes you've just got to laugh at the antics of politicians - even when the subject matter is serious, as is the current contentious debate on the long overdue legislation of the X case. The following poem is my salute to the deputies in Dail Eireann who, when forced to work into the small wee hours, really show their mettle. 

           KNEES-UP IN THE DAIL BAR
Some were saying rosaries and singing songs of praise
Twenty years engagement in political affrays
Was drawing to conclusion within the hallowed walls
Of Leinster House where T.D’s had been setting out their stalls.

James was quite determined to legislate with speed
The verdict on the X case, a judgement once decreed.
Lucinda claimed that ‘group think’ was a cultural disgrace.
So Enda rapped her knuckles to put her in her place.

Amendments were debated as nocturnal hours flew
Eloquence was at its best served with a brew or two.
Abortion is a woman’s right? Abortion is a crime?
The T.Ds in the Dail Bar heard no one calling time.

Some deputies were wavering because they feared a belt
From a bishop’s crozier if they protected women’s health.
But no one thought to check the bar where whiskey and the beer
Had made them rather frisky – or so it did appear.

Now it was reassuring to know that T.D. Tom
Was engaged in horse play – and not acting the gom.
A lass on lap without permit was only having fun
Abortion’s just a woman’s lot – when all is said and done.

Oh, it was a jolly knees-up that took place in the Dail
As deputies decided to stand or take a fall.
Abortion through the back door? A woman’s right to choose?
Argued in the Dail Bar with scruples and with booze.

© Laura Elliot 

Anglo Bank Hoist

If the Anglo Irish bankers were as free with their money as they were with their mouth, we'd be millionaires.

Bank Hoist 

It’s a bit of a farce

When out from their arse

Bankers dribble a figure

That keeps getting bigger

As more noughts are added

And balance sheets padded

Organised to a T

How to fool you and me.

It’s a bit of a farce

When there’s no time to parse

The needs of a nation

Against lax regulation.

To hear bankers chuckle

And use Cupla Focal.

‘Cause it’s all just a game.

Ah, sure, no one’s to blame.

It’s a bit of a farce

When the moolah is sparse

That Anglo wants skin

On the Government’s chin.

And isn’t it callous

To sing Uber Alles

When Germany’s coffers

Will bail out those scoffers?

It’s a bit of a farce

When we’re kicked in the arse

By bankers who’s onus

Is keeping their bonus.

But those scoffing phonies

And political cronies

Have caused consternation

AND BROKEN THE DREAMS OF A NATION.

Laura Elliot©

Widgets Webs And All Those Words

Recently I attended a number of  workshops in the hope that I could find the magic bullet that would make social media understandable, easy and less of a head wrecker. As I listened to the various speakers I realised how much our words have been redefined since the arrival of the World Wide Web into our lives. Instead of learning to appreciate the power of the Tweet and the  impact of the Blog I started doodling and ended up with this little poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Widgets Webs And All Those Words 

A web was once the prime address when spiders set up house

With silken strands to lure an unwary fly or louse.

But spiders and tarantulas now seldom come to mind

Because we have the World Wide Web – and words are redefined.

A tweet was always warbled, the prerogative of birds.

Now it is a pithy note that’s easy on the words.

And  Widgets used to float inside an alcoholic can

To help a glass of Guinness rise up like a flan.

A Virus is no longer caused by sniffles and by snot

Nor is it cured by Lemsip – or many toddies hot.

And when the doctor tell us to take a week in bed

We don’t expect the Tablet to cure our aching head.

A bite was once a nibble – or a sometimes painful nip

From a dog with rabies – and it was also hip

To wear a scarf from Hermès knotted at the neck

To show that last night we’d enjoyed a bit more than a peck.

But now we talk in Gigabytes -  and when we have a Nibble

Four Bits is equivalent – and does not make us dribble.

And if we want a sandwich we must not ask for Spam.

For it’s a nasty filler, dispatched without a qualm.

A Yahoo, to be honest, was something of a dope.

And a Curser was expected to wash his mouth with soap.

A Blog’s first name was always Joe – and when it came to Hacks

We do not think of journalists– or lumberjacks with axe.

A Mouse left droppings in the pan and caused the girls to shriek.

Now it runs around the screen and doesn’t squeak an ‘Ekk!’

As for us shopaholics, why should we Browse the mall

When we can rest our bunions and do an Online trawl?

Our Domain was a terrace, a semi or detached

But now we cannot enter  if our passwords haven’t matched.

Surfers do not need a tan, a surfboard or a wave

But we are in hot water if we forget to Save.

A Trojan was the wooden horse that did it for the Troys.

Servers were once recognised as altar girls and boys.

A match was used to Kindle the most reluctant flame.

And Amazons were women of extraordinary fame.

I could go on and talk of Clouds – but I’d be wasting time

Which could be spent on Facebook where I don’t have to rhyme.

So, if you’ve enjoyed this ditty please share it with a friend.

It really is quite easy – you Like and then press Send.

Laura Elliot ©

Reviewing All Gods Dead - A Fascinating Read

Brigit Egan is dying but she has no intention of going quietly into the dark night. In All Gods Dead, an extraordinary and ambitious novel, the author Marian O'Neill explores the external and internal struggle that surrounds Brigit's final days. Externally, she is watched over by her daughters, Deirdre and Ruth, who are caught up in the tragic ritual of their mother's approaching demise. They share shifts at the nursing home, console each other with meals, bottles of wine, black humour and recollections of their childhood.

Both have different perceptions of the love they received from their mother. Ruth has always viewed it as deep and unconditional whereas Deirdre believes that Brigit’s love came laden with demands and expectations she was never able to fathom.

Brigit, outwardly drooling, confused and heavily sedated, is engaged in an internal struggle as her memory cuts through the mists of her past with pitiless accuracy. Skin by skin, the layers of her youth are stripped away as she reveals how she escaped from the dulled confines of middle-class Irish society in the 1920 and created a new life for herself on the edges of Parisian society.  

Beautiful and reckless, Brigit senses her escape when a brash young man in a flashy car drives by her parents’ house. Without hesitating, she climbs abroad and turns her face towards the freedom she senses beyond the green hills of home. But there are no greener, faraway hills. Just city after city, London, Paris, Berlin, each with its thrills, its dangers and its temptations.

Brigit becomes JoJo, she is today's wannabe, the groupie, hanging on the edges of other people’s lives, knowing she can never be part of this sophisticated, swinging society. Marian O'Neill is an lyrical writer, sparse yet precise in her descriptions of the cafe culture that danced its way through the decade and beyond.

JoJo whirls with it, part-time dancer and singer, short-time lover of Picasso, confidante of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, circus performer and, eventually, when there are only two paths she can take, she opts for her safe, middle-class roots and embraces marriage and motherhood instead of self-destruction.

Her secret is safe and is banked down over the decades until, as she faces her own mortality, her story must be told, even if only she can hear it. To the others who come and go from her bedside, they are hearing the muttered ravings of a dying woman.

All Gods Dead brings a fascinating, decadent decade to life. The author has a brave voice and a light touch that moves us effortlessly from city to city, endowing each one with its own unique and historical atmosphere.

Aurora Romps Home Today

I'm no angel - and the only use I have for the head of a pin is to jab it into the line-up for the Grand National. Usually, my other hand is over my eyes as I place my absolute trust in the haphazard nature  of fate.

Today, I used the internet to check the runners. As  it's rather difficult to jab a computer screen, I was forced to read the names.  Auroras Encore seemed to leap from the screen and I backed her. The reason was as whimsical as my jabbed pin choices - Aurora is a character in my latest novel, which is still a work in progress.

Currently, my Aurora is a rather cunning and crazed woman who exists on the sidelines of the main story. Imagine my disbelief when her name sake streaked home in first place with the wonderful odds on 66 -1. 

No one was more astonished than me when I realised my €2.50 each way bet had netted me a hefty €211

As the horses raced around the track and the commentator told us they were approaching the Foinavon fence I was reminded of a dream my father-in-law had on the night before the 1967 Grand National. In his dream all the horses fell down until only horse remained capable of crossing the finishing line. He could hear people cheering on this lone horse. "Fionavon! Foinavon!" The name was repeated many times and the following day when he was studying the form he noticed the name and remembered his dream.

Fionavon was running at 1oo-1 and he placed modest bet on the horse. To his astonishment his dream unfolded before his eyes as horse after horse fell down or refused the jumps. Alone, with the field in disarray, Fionavon romped home to victory. To commemorate that famous win the fence was officially named after Fionavon in 1984.

Today Auroras Encore leaped that fence cleanly  - and I'm the richer for it.  But what do I do with my Aurora character whom I've treated with scant respect until now. As writers we are advised not to fall in love with our characters. We control them, not the other way round - and love makes fools of us all.  I feel like  pressing the delete button on Aurora's more unpleasant aspects. I want to promote  her from the wings of a subplot and make her the heroine of the main plot.

I'm hoping the fever will pass ... once I've squandered my winnings.Otherwise,  there's just too much rewriting to be done and really, she's far more interesting when she's crazed and cunning, and always capable to surpassing the others by a long streak.