The Cement Garden

When I was in sixth form at school, I took English Literature. I always loved a good book and a good discussion about it afterwards, so it seemed like an ideal A Level for me. My teacher however, was the only difficulty.

He loved to inflict deep, psychological books onto us- the kind where small children turn crazy and kill their neighbours and normal men have affairs with their mother. So it’s not surprising that we found ourselves falling into a slight mental disintegration ourselves.

But something from his depressing reading list must have stuck with me, because now I find myself still being drawn to those psychological, soul-draining books. So I guess that’s what appealed to me when I read the blurb on Ian McEwan’s The Cement Garden the book that definitely pushed me to the edge of insanity this summer.

The story follows the lives of four siblings after the death of their father and the following death of their mother a year later. Told from the perspective of the adolescent male of the house, Jack, the gloomy cloud that has become their lives sees him totally emasculated by his sisters- one of whom he has an obsessive sexual fascination for. And with their mother’s body encased in cement in the basement acting as a constant reminder of their troubles, the whole story seems pressed by an impending doom.

So yes, definitely no light hearted beach read.

And I’ll never forget where I was when I finished the book - out in the back garden of a lovely holiday home by the coast, soaking up the end of the summer rays- a beautifully relaxed place to read.

But when the ending of the book saw the cement around their mother crack, and a bit of incestuous action unfold between Jack and his sister, you can imagine I was far from relaxed. More like speechless; and utterly disturbed.

So, as I look out of the literal abyss The Cement Garden plummeted me into, I’m holding that English teacher responsible for the total hopeless void that has become my reading preference, and the general mental disintegration I’m bound to fall into as a result.

Northern Ireland: What I have learned to love...

I have to admit, I’ve never had much respect for Northern Ireland. Yes, I was born there and yes, it has been my home all my life, but it has never really evoked any form of patriotism in me in any way. In fact, both the country and its people have always been a bit of a joke to me- ironically, with me being one of them and all.

So after a year in Southampton, the idea of spending an unwilling 3 months in a tiny of country of fields and farmers did not appeal to me at all. But really, my time away has made me notice a few things about home that I can’t help but fall in love with.

Like the greenness. It’s so green here. I’m pretty sure nowhere does green hills as good as Ireland.  I didn’t realise this until I took a road trip with a friend out west to Donegal this summer. The whole time it felt like we were driving through one big cliché, with scenes from a stereotypical Irish postcard surrounding us- the kind of postcard that makes us look like a backward land of nothing but mass fields and farmyards- the kind of postcards Americans like to send. But I had to admit, stereotypical or not, we do have some seriously good green hills.

                                                                      Typical postcard-perfect?

Number two- doing outdoor activities in generally inappropriate weather. Long countryside walks in gale-force winds? Trips to the beach in torrential rain? All of which whilst wearing an attempt at summer clothing? Yeah, only the Northern Irish would do things like this and not actually complain, because weather-wise, we don’t know any better. So you have to love our dedication to at least pretending to have fun on the typical outdoor-summer day trips. Just give us our good coat and a pair of sunnies and we’re loving life.

                                         My friend Becky, loving the beach and some clear grey skies

And lastly; the potato. Yes, I know we are notoriously known for them and everyone loves a good joke about us and our potatoes, but I had honestly forgotten how much people from Northern Ireland love a good spud. And we are so inventive with them!  I don’t believe anyone can do as much with one potato than any typical Irish mother can. Boiled, roasted, fried- champ, potato bread and Taytos; we know how to make something good of possibly the most boring food known to man, and I love it.

So yes, these are pretty much all total stereotypes and the reason most other countries look down on us with a satirical pity. Green, rainy, potato-loving farmers? Yes. But I’ve realised this summer that I wouldn’t have us any other way.

Little List of Life Annoyances

I don’t like to admit it, but I can be a very irritable person. When I was younger, my mum constantly told me off for being impatient and often plagued me with what has now become a dreaded phrase for me; “patience is a virtue, possess it if you can.”

But you have to admit it, we all have those little things in life that just get right on our nerves- and you know what, I think that’s fine. Whether it is people cracking their knuckles, or the sound of nails on a chalkboard- don’t be afraid to hate it! Little annoyances in life are something we all have, and today, I thought I would simply express mine in a healthy way.

So here is my Little List of Life Annoyances:

1)      Noisy Eaters- Yes, I’m sorry if you are the kind who love a good chew with your mouth open, but really, none of us need to see or hear the process of digestion to the extent that you let us! And the worst thing about being a hater of the noisy eater is that, ironically, it always seems to be me that ends up sitting beside them. Whether it’s the open-mouthed slapping at the dinner table, or the slow, awkward crisp-cruncher during a quiet film- there’s always one, and they are always guaranteed to give my nerves a little shiver of annoyance!

2)      Biscuits falling into tea/coffee- I think this has to be a fairly common one. You know the scenario- you’ve made a nice cuppa, treated yourself to a chocolate digestive and just got comfortable on the sofa. You dunk the biscuit in, and just as you bring it out again and give it that inspection to see how well the chocolate has melted, half of it literally crumbles and falls into a sea of murky tea right in front of you. Gets me every time.

3)      Fruit Flies- They are those little tiny black ones that just seem to appear in swarms in the summer. It’s the way they just fly so slowly and idly around your kitchen- ironically not even near your fruit! But the worst encounter with them is when you are standing still, and you’re suddenly aware of something small hovering near your face. You swat it away, but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere. So you swat again, and again, and maybe even a fourth time. It’s only then that you realise what it is- and after another few failed attempts at swatting it away, you end up so frustrated and embarrassed that you’ve failed to scare the smallest house pest known to man. Always awkward and always annoying!

4)      The “millionaire’s shortbread” customer- I work in a coffee shop in Northern Ireland, and if you’re from there you will know that I sell Malteaser squares, lemon squares, mint squares and caramel squares. Yep, we Northern Irish are proud of our “squares traybakes”. So you can imagine my disgust when an English tourist comes in and refers to my caramel squares as “millionaire’s shortbread”. Millionaire’s shortbread? What is that, something off a Forbes list of most expensive cakes or something? No. It’s a caramel square. And it’s not just a caramel square- it’s a homemade, Northern Irish “cyaramel squuerrrr”. Get it right.

5)      Clocks ticking at night- Now, I don’t expect them to suddenly stop when it gets past bedtime or anything, but there’s something about the sound of a clock ticking while you’re trying to get to sleep that gets right on my nerves. Every tick, every tock just gets louder and louder; whilst you get more and more tired, and more and more frustrated. It’s like a constant thumping in your mind that wills you not to nod off. Unfortunately for me, my mother has an obsession with the things, and is, sadly, the proud owner of nine antique clocks- each with their own incessant tick and relentless tock. She keeps them just outside my room in the hallway, which, thinking about it now is a bit of a slap in the face to all those “patience is a virtue lessons” when I was younger. Good one mum.

Life Beyond the Border...

There’s something I have discovered as I have grown older and generally experienced more in life; and that is that the world is amazing.

I know that sounds really vague and dreamy, and makes me sound like I should be hugging a tree or pondering life by a lake or something. But over the few countries I have been lucky enough to travel to, I have realised that the culture, the sights and the people you can come across in other places can be ultimately remarkable to experience.

For me, a trip to Morocco last summer was what suddenly set me off on this “friend of the earth” kind of wave length- and I thought that since it was one year on from my time there, I would share all that I loved about the whole hot, dusty, donkey-smelling country.

                                                         Some of Morocco's hot and dusty Atlas Mountains

Simply getting there was a surreal experience in itself. You expect a country’s border to consist of tall wire fences, a fairly civilised, slowly moving queue of cars and a quick check of your passport – but not in Morocco. There, on the verge of the Spanish owned city of Melilla, was where life simply descended into chaos; and with a sweaty 5-hour wait in a pick-up truck, we found ourselves getting totally caught in the middle of it.

Women would stroll past with the blatantly obvious shape of fifty counterfeit shoes beneath their robes, children would come to your car window to sell you whatever they found lying around (we purchased a very handy half-used box of tissues); all while a few Moroccan policemen tried to flirt with you in an unusual Arabic-English mix.

And life beyond the border is equally as chaotic and colourful. The narrow streets of old town Fes are the best example. Tiny stalls line the alley sides, each of them like an alcove filled with glassy lanterns, gold ornaments or bright red spices- while multi-coloured shutters hang above your head- keeping the sun out and an interesting kind of leathery/sweaty smell in.

One thing you do need to adjust to though is the random spontaneous shouts of Arabic men. Something that sounds like “200 camels” as you walk past is probably an offer of what they’ll give to buy you- made worse for me by a guy I was travelling with who tried to pawn me off to some locals for free.

Another is just a crazed mix of Arabic words which suddenly sets the whole street into frenzy. People scatter into doorways and you’ll probably find a hefty Moroccan pulling you in against the wall. I came to learn this means “move or get hit” by the over loaded donkey that’s hurtling up the narrow, winding street towards you. 

The narrow, shuttered streets of Fes                                                               Colourful cloth handbags line the alley walls

So, I realise the picture I have painted of Morocco so far isn’t exactly a pleasant one. But what I found, was that just off the dusty, smelly hectic streets, there was always something entirely surprising and beautiful.

You would maybe find a narrow wooden doorway leading off an alley- and as dodgy as it may look, you might cautiously enter. But inside, a massive, beautiful building would open up before you, with cedar-carved ceilings and intricate mosaic covering the walls, filled with rich rugs, cloths or whatever the store happened to be selling. Moroccans love mint tea, and as soon as you come into their shop, they’ll have you seated around a small, low table while they pour you glasses of the concoction of mint leaves and about twenty six sugars- no exaggeration. It seems like a lot less of an offer than the 200 camels suggested to you earlier, but it’s definitely a lot safer.

     A friend and I get dressed by some local burka merchants

And that’s what I love about Morocco; about any other country at all really. Parts of it may smell of donkeys and the locals may seem a bit too presumptuous at times, but it’s all those little elements that make up its fascinating, beautiful culture.

It’s the sights, the smells, the people and their languages that left me totally enthralled with Morocco, and made me realise how amazing different parts of the world really are.

So while I probably won’t find myself embracing a tree in the classic “love for the earth” kind of way- I might just find myself back in the frenzied streets of Fes dodging over loaded donkeys and camel offers- but I’ll be loving every minute of it.