And I thought if I could get through the emotional part that was the hardest part-the bureauocratic part has me on my knees

I thought it would be straightforward and honest to-

change name/address on driving locence

change status for revenue/tax purposes

change status for effing everything I had to...

oh God no,  let's make things as difficult as possible for people who are already hurting and on their knees...

D Day Party...if you could call it that...

The D Party.

It was decreed by the powers that be in my place of employment, that we were all going out for pizzas and beer to celebrate/commemorate D Day. It had been decided that a night out would “do me good”.  How kind of them, how thoughtful. Sure wouldn’t it do us all good to have a night out…?

So, accordingly, I found myself squelching up Dublin’s Dawson Street on a balmy summer night – the rain was torrential. I’m always amazed by how we grow potatoes in this country, and not rice. What with the wetness and us being called paddies- we could be rice paddies no problem. My light summer shoes, my feet and the legs of my jeans, were all soaked by the time I got into the restaurant. I tried every contortion I could in the Ladies Loo  but  unfortunately was unable to stand on my head on the tiled floor, the only position from which it would have been possible to hold my feet and legs under the hand dryer. There was only one thing left to do. Warm myself up with wine and ignore the squelching and gurgling from my footwear...

The Office Party were all squashed round one big table, in the Italian tradition. Beer and wine flowed; the conversation flowed as we waited for our first course. No one mentioned the D word or the reason for our night out. One of my colleagues who had not been in work for a while came to the pizza party. She’d been out for a fortnight, having surgery. Cosmetic surgery. As a result of which, she overshadowed the condiments on the table. Everyone was trying not to look but it was a bit difficult to avoid…There was much talk and laughter about the procedure, and it’s after effects, do’s and don’ts. “Is it true that you can’t fly for three months?” asked one person. It was. “What else can you not do?” asked another.  “Well, I can’t go on fairground rides” was the reply. “I can’t bungee jump either”. We were in hysterics, with suggestions that she might knock herself unconscious in a fast elevator and similar remarks. The hilarity grew. One colleague decided that she just had to rise from the table and sing Beyoncé’s “If you like it put a ring on it” with accompanying actions.  Shortly after that, it was time to leave. We left the pizza joint and headed to a late night drinks venue. A young female colleague challenged a much older, bigger, male colleague to a drinking contest. Possibly not the wisest idea.  A good night. Numbed by tiredness and wine, I headed home and left them to it. After all, it was a Thursday and there was work in the morning…

Friday.

It seems that one person tripped in her skyscraper heels and fell under a taxi but was uninjured; one person got out of a taxi when the driver refused to give her his details; one person insulted a guy she thought was trying to pick her up but who had only wanted to return the cigarettes she had dropped on the dancefloor – and the piece de resistance?

In the late night place, she who had been enhanced invited two female colleagues to “feel the difference”, so to speak. Whereupon two strangers had approached them, introduced themselves as two happily married men, asked them if they were 3 lesbians and then asked if they, too, could “feel the difference”. I gather the aftermath of that encounter was not pretty.

The final encounter relating to the “D Party” was not pretty either, although excruciatingly funny. Female Colleague X, who had challenged Male Colleague Y to the drinking contest, had been charged with the task of bringing a birthday cake for Colleague Z into work on Friday morning. Accordingly, she had stopped off at a large supermarket chain store to buy a readymade birthday cake. Unfortunately, she felt very unwell Friday morning. With the consequence that she was unable to venture as far as the cake section, due to the fact that she was puking into a plastic bag grabbed at the cash desk. The supermarket insisted on scanning the plastic bag at a checkout  and she had to pay for it -and presumably had to take it home with her, which is where she went and phoned in sick from.  

What can I say?

When you work with people like this, life isn’t all bad. J

Would a blow torch do it?

I'm having a little difficulty with number 3...changing myself from a thermometer to a thermostat. Perhas because I find both images slightly unsettling...:).  Random act of kindness; distributed little almond cakes to colleagues today...have been accused of  WRECKING  their diets...Note to self; Next random act of kindness must not involve food + office environment.

Dr. Feelbetter's Prescription for Happiness...allegedly...and not a mention of anti-depressants...

THE PRESCRIPTION FOR HAPPINESS

1. Keep a journal.
2. Record small victories.
3. Are you a thermometer or a thermostat? Be a thermostat; a thermometer always  reacts to other people.
4. Have 5 good/positive  qualities/emotions/thoughts (good dwarves) to every 1 negative one.
5. Happiness= pleasure, engagement and meaning.
6. Have realistic optimism.
7. Expand your happiness.
8. Plan, persist, persevere.
9. See the silver lining in every situation.
10. Journal; write what it would feel like in 3-5 years, if everything you  imagined/wanted came about, i.e. the best possible self of you.
11. Think and Thank.
12. Gratitude- a conscious choice to focus on what’s working in your life.
13. Wanting what you have, right here, right now.
14. Write a gratitude diary twice a week.
15. Read the story of Borghil Dahl for inspiration.
16. Be kinder to yourself.
17. Perform 5 random acts of kindness each week.
18. Lighten up on your inner critic.
19. Set goals consistent with your values.
20. Use vision and action together.
21. Be committed.
22. Do one thing tomorrow to improve my health and expand my happiness.
23. Commit to small daily improvements.
24. Small improvements done over time produce amazing results.
25. Open your heart and mind to possibility.
26. Exercise daily.
27. Positive thoughts produce new brain neurons.
28. Flow-be in the zone- in the moment.
29. Being creative = happy=energised.
30. Make time to do what you love, and love what you do.
31. We mirror the behaviour of the 5 key relationships in our lives.
32. Surround yourself with people that will support your dreams and empower you.
33. If you can’t pull the people in your life UP, don’t let them drag you down.
34. There is a “we” in wellness, and an “i” in illness.
35. Celebrate your victories with suitable people.
36. Volunteering once a month = 7% increase in happiness.
37. Volunteering once a week = 16% increase in happiness.
38. Your compass represents your values.
39. Seek    Silence. Stillness. Solitude. Security. Serenity.
40. Let the past go.
41. Make a conscious choice to focus on what is good in your life.
42. Commit to small improvements which over time will lead to amazing results.

Oh yes, again...

NOT AGAIN

Same Courtroom, different judge.  This time I was alone in the well of the court. Judge #2 asked what the reason for this appearance was. I explained that I had been asked to return with specific information from the Pension People.  Ah yes, she said. I handed over the document received from them to the Registrar who then handed it to the judge.  Her Honour wasn’t satisfied with it. It doesn’t state x, y, z as required, she said with a touch of anger. “I’m sorry” I said. “This is what they sent me. I took it to be what was wanted.”  I was so visibly upset that she relented a little. “You weren’t to know” she said.   “But they most certainly should”- and she fixed a new date for me to appear in the courtroom, with the information required just to rubber stamp the process. So now I have to go back – again- in November. Is there no end to this?

I went home, rang the Pension Scheme Management Company. The phone call I'd never ever made to a service company; I was massively, massively angry. I was put through to a senior manager who tried to convince me that a judge asking for more detailed information than they ordinarily supplied, was a very unusual request. If it’s so unusual, I said, how did my husband’s pension provider know to do it? There was silence on the other end of the ‘phone. These organizations are  and always have been paid huge sums of money to administer schemes and invest funds...and over the last number of years they've lost huge sums and depleted pension schemes to the point where they're being closed down. Bye now, sorry about that...

The upshot of this is, I’m the  one who is upset, discommoded and has to attend a court again. Not to mention the other stuff; changing my name on some official documents e.g. driver’s licence, passport, i.d. cards, credit cards….

As for sorting out the house and living arrangements, I’m not even going to go there. I’m going to the pub instead. Which is probably not the wisest idea, but it’s the one that appeals to me right now. 

Not AGAIN, Judge!

When I stop foaming at the mouth, I will post what happened at Court Hearting Part Deux.

The day after...

THE AFTERMATH

The day after D Day I was back in work. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. My office looked the same; my desk was where it always was. But I was not who I had been. I was now a divorcee.

It was a Friday, so that evening I packed some clothes and on Saturday morning drove to the west of Ireland, to the northernmost tip of Galway. I was on my own, there to lick my wounds but I also knew there was a Bridge Club Holiday going in that hotel that particular week. Saturday I drove the length and breadth of Connemara, sobbing all the way along the winding roads leading to places that had previously soothed me and landscapes that always had wrapped themselves around my soul. On to Roundstone and down to Inverin. Cried my way back past the solitude of Lough Inagh. Stopped at the heart-breaking beauty of Kylemore Abbey. Lit a candle in Our Lady of the Wayside, the little church that sits at the junction of four winds. Nothing helped. Back at the hotel in the late afternoon, I had a shower, washed my hair and sat in my room reading. To my surprise, the ‘phone rang; they were short one person for the Bridge tournament, would I oblige? I would. So down I went, wet hair and all. I had tea and the loveliest scones and jam I’d ever tasted delivered to my table. Hastily swallowed them and as play began noticed every table held wineglasses, shot glasses, glasses of crème de menthe and what have you. Arsenic and Old Lace all over again… As play progressed and I had no clue what my partner held or what she was doing, I realized Partner was three sheets to the wind, so to speak. The tournament continued as did the merriment. Our score continued downwards in inverse proportion to the amount of wine consumed by Partner…My reward for coming down and playing? After the session ended Partner suggested I should take “Improver Lessons”… The fact that she was so well on that she could hardly pronounce the word “Improver” was obviously not germane to the fact that we’d probably finished last…  At dinner I sat with the Bridge players. Then it was time for drinks in the bar and a pianist who played old chestnuts and music hall stuff. No traditional Irish music. When the sing-song finished, I went to bed, hoping that my room in the old part of the hotel wasn’t in the area rumoured to be haunted. I had the heebie-jeebies already… However, the exhaustion not to mention the drinks put me out like a light.

Next morning, showered, dressed and ready for breakfast, I searched for the room key. Searched everywhere. Every drawer, every bag, every crevice of my handbag. Decided to just pull the door behind me and inform Reception that I had mislaid the key. I had indeed. I’d left it in the door. All night.

After a solitary breakfast, I went to Reception to book a ticket for the ferry to the island of Inishbofin. A conversation with two older ladies ensued when they overheard my request. It seemed they’d never been to the island and would love to go. There was no day trip to the island organized as part of their Bridge holiday…Run and get ready, I’ll get your ferry tickets, hurry, I have to leave in 10 minutes to make the ferry, I said. So three went to the island.  The entrance to the little harbour is difficult but the ferry was high-tech; when we were virtually on the rocks and myself and the foreign tourists were looking round for the  lifejackets and bracing ourselves against the rails, the deckhand was hanging over the prow and shouting up to the bridge; “You’re grand, Paddy, you’re grand!” By some miracle we were. Once landed, I walked the little paths, climbed stiles and drank in the beauty of the place. I had to beat a hasty retreat when a ram threw shapes at me.  At the other side of the island, for the first time in my life, I heard a corncrake. I knew immediately what it was. What a privilege.  The two ladies had a lovely time, and thanked me profusely for bringing them to the island.  Why wouldn’t I? I was going anyway and they had no other way of getting there. Isn’t that what life is about?  

Back at the hotel, it was dinner and a play about emigration staged in the bar. A two-hander based on true testimonies. It is true; the west of Ireland has been repeatedly emptied. But enough remain to keep the fire lit and the Irish spoken. We owe the people of the Gaeltacht a great debt. At least I feel I do.

Driving home, I was glad I’d gone. No burden had been lifted, but I’d heard a corncrake. And been advised to take Improver Lessons. And the ghost had not manifested.