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- a member for 3 years, 3 months and 22 days
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» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me
Not me but my whole family
My Dad's boss is possibly the nicest man on the face of the earth.
About 25 years ago Dad's dad died on a Sunday morning in his house in the arse-end of nowhere in Ireland. In those days there were no cash-points and my parents didn't have a cheque book so Dad had no idea how he was going to get to Ireland that day. Cue Dad's boss stumping up the cash, driving him to the airport and then checking that my Aunts and Uncles also had enough ready cash to make the trip. He then later denied that the money was a loan and refused to accept the money back.
His niceness continued unabated when he sent his employees a flipping enormous turkey every year at Christmas without fail. It would take us days to eat the thing but it knocked a bit off the cost of Christmas every year.
Then the man out-did himself. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer the first time, he paid Dad full wages for the whole six months he was off work. Then when the cancer came back and it was terminal, he paid Dad his full wages up until the day he died. This meant on both occassions that Mum could stay at home with Dad without worrying about money. And if this wasn't enough, after Dad died he sent my Mum a very large and very generous cheque to cover the cost of the funeral "in recognition" of all Dad's years of working for him.
The relief of not having to worry about money in the last few weeks was the best thing my parents could have had and so Dad's boss is the family hero. He made everything just that little less stressful at a time when you just don't need any pressure.
I might go and have a bit of a cry now.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 12:51, More)
Not me but my whole family
My Dad's boss is possibly the nicest man on the face of the earth.
About 25 years ago Dad's dad died on a Sunday morning in his house in the arse-end of nowhere in Ireland. In those days there were no cash-points and my parents didn't have a cheque book so Dad had no idea how he was going to get to Ireland that day. Cue Dad's boss stumping up the cash, driving him to the airport and then checking that my Aunts and Uncles also had enough ready cash to make the trip. He then later denied that the money was a loan and refused to accept the money back.
His niceness continued unabated when he sent his employees a flipping enormous turkey every year at Christmas without fail. It would take us days to eat the thing but it knocked a bit off the cost of Christmas every year.
Then the man out-did himself. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer the first time, he paid Dad full wages for the whole six months he was off work. Then when the cancer came back and it was terminal, he paid Dad his full wages up until the day he died. This meant on both occassions that Mum could stay at home with Dad without worrying about money. And if this wasn't enough, after Dad died he sent my Mum a very large and very generous cheque to cover the cost of the funeral "in recognition" of all Dad's years of working for him.
The relief of not having to worry about money in the last few weeks was the best thing my parents could have had and so Dad's boss is the family hero. He made everything just that little less stressful at a time when you just don't need any pressure.
I might go and have a bit of a cry now.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 12:51, More)
» The Dark
The strangest boreen in Ireland.
For those who are unfamiliar with the word, a boreen is a small country road. No paving or anything like that - more like a track. My family holidays more often than not consisted of trips to Clare where we would stay in a variety of damp holiday cottages situated along a boreen far from the nearest village.
One year the whole family went at the same time. Mum and Dad hired a cottage at one end of the lane and my aunts clubbed together to stay in another about half a mile further up the road, on the other side of the road. Halfway between the two, on our side of the road, was a ruined cottage with no roof, door or windows (you see these all over the place in Ireland) and that was it - no other houses or buildings for a couple of miles.
The boreen was kind of creepy even in daylight for no specific reason. Maybe it was the silence - it was the furthest out we had ever stayed. When we arrived the first night it was already pitch black and my uncle, who had picked up the keys earlier, was a bit jumpy after walking down on his own to let us in. He'd near shat himself when he walked into the bedroom and found himself face-to-face with a large statue of St Theresa smiling at him in the gloom. Now this was a man who was born and brought up in the wilds of Wales so it wasn't a townie reaction the dark. He was genuinely freaked out for no real reason.
A few days after we arrived, Dad pointed out that there was smoke coming out of the chimmney of the ruined cottage. We went up later and poked about but couldn't see any sign of a fire, recent or otherwise. My family all thinks of themselves as a bit fey and so no one was unduly freaked by this - there was just a bit of finger wiggling and making of ghostly noises. It was sort of intriguing but not really scarey. That said, Dad did tend to drive up and down to the other house, but that could have been laziness, so none of us, apart from my uncle, walked the road in darkness.
On one of the last nights of the holiday Mum, my sister and I spent the evening at the Aunts' house and were waiting for Dad to come and collect us. My uncle turned up in a friend's car, more than a bit worse for wear, and said that he and Dad had a few drinks in town and so Dad couldn't drive up. It late and so the only choice was for the three of us to walk down on our own in the dark.
As a cowardly teenager I did the only sensible thing and clung on to my Mum's arm for dear life as we walked along. My sister decided this was the best bet too so the three of started off down the road, all trying to talk naturally (none of us wanted to let on we were scared) but all walking far faster than normal. As we got nearer the ruined cottage the conversation trailed off and I had that panicky conviction that "something was about to happen" so I did the only thing possible and shut my eyes knowing that the other two wouldn't be able to tell in the dark. It turns out that on the other side of Mum, my sister came to the same conclusion and had decided that what ever it was, she didn't want to see it either. Thankfully, Mum was a bit braver than us or we would have ended up in a ditch.
All of a sudden Mum lurched into a run, dragging me and my sister along with her and didn't stop till we got home. Nothing was said as we ran, the adrenelin just kicked and we all legged it. Inside the door we could see that Mum was white as a sheet. According to what she said, the moon had come out behind us as we walked along and cast very clear shadows onto the road in front of us. The only problem was there were four not three.
(Sun 26th Jul 2009, 13:27, More)
The strangest boreen in Ireland.
For those who are unfamiliar with the word, a boreen is a small country road. No paving or anything like that - more like a track. My family holidays more often than not consisted of trips to Clare where we would stay in a variety of damp holiday cottages situated along a boreen far from the nearest village.
One year the whole family went at the same time. Mum and Dad hired a cottage at one end of the lane and my aunts clubbed together to stay in another about half a mile further up the road, on the other side of the road. Halfway between the two, on our side of the road, was a ruined cottage with no roof, door or windows (you see these all over the place in Ireland) and that was it - no other houses or buildings for a couple of miles.
The boreen was kind of creepy even in daylight for no specific reason. Maybe it was the silence - it was the furthest out we had ever stayed. When we arrived the first night it was already pitch black and my uncle, who had picked up the keys earlier, was a bit jumpy after walking down on his own to let us in. He'd near shat himself when he walked into the bedroom and found himself face-to-face with a large statue of St Theresa smiling at him in the gloom. Now this was a man who was born and brought up in the wilds of Wales so it wasn't a townie reaction the dark. He was genuinely freaked out for no real reason.
A few days after we arrived, Dad pointed out that there was smoke coming out of the chimmney of the ruined cottage. We went up later and poked about but couldn't see any sign of a fire, recent or otherwise. My family all thinks of themselves as a bit fey and so no one was unduly freaked by this - there was just a bit of finger wiggling and making of ghostly noises. It was sort of intriguing but not really scarey. That said, Dad did tend to drive up and down to the other house, but that could have been laziness, so none of us, apart from my uncle, walked the road in darkness.
On one of the last nights of the holiday Mum, my sister and I spent the evening at the Aunts' house and were waiting for Dad to come and collect us. My uncle turned up in a friend's car, more than a bit worse for wear, and said that he and Dad had a few drinks in town and so Dad couldn't drive up. It late and so the only choice was for the three of us to walk down on our own in the dark.
As a cowardly teenager I did the only sensible thing and clung on to my Mum's arm for dear life as we walked along. My sister decided this was the best bet too so the three of started off down the road, all trying to talk naturally (none of us wanted to let on we were scared) but all walking far faster than normal. As we got nearer the ruined cottage the conversation trailed off and I had that panicky conviction that "something was about to happen" so I did the only thing possible and shut my eyes knowing that the other two wouldn't be able to tell in the dark. It turns out that on the other side of Mum, my sister came to the same conclusion and had decided that what ever it was, she didn't want to see it either. Thankfully, Mum was a bit braver than us or we would have ended up in a ditch.
All of a sudden Mum lurched into a run, dragging me and my sister along with her and didn't stop till we got home. Nothing was said as we ran, the adrenelin just kicked and we all legged it. Inside the door we could see that Mum was white as a sheet. According to what she said, the moon had come out behind us as we walked along and cast very clear shadows onto the road in front of us. The only problem was there were four not three.
(Sun 26th Jul 2009, 13:27, More)
» This book changed my life
Douglas Adams'
books genuinely shaped the way my life turned out.
I always loved to read and Mum took us to the library every week once we were old enough to join. The first book I got out on the exciting day that I was allowed an adult library ticket was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. After reading that I inhaled everything Douglas Adams ever wrote.
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul was the first book I ever yearned to own. I asked for it for Christmas and spent the day curled up on the sofa reading it in sheer delight. The joy of ownership was a revelation to me and probably accounts for the insane number of books that are now piled up around the house in precarious heaps - all well read and well loved.
As a teenager it was Adams that partly inspired my list of fictional men that I judged potential boyfriends by. The list of characters I would run away with still stands as Ford Prefect, David Lister, The Doctor and Mr Darcy.
When we got the internet one of the first idle searches I did in Google was for Ford Prefect and that was how I ended up on H2G2 (before it got all weird and BBC owned). I loved that site and went along to the first birthday meet-up they held in Hyde Park. It was there that I met Mr Innogen and eight years later we are still very happy indeed.
So I can honestly say that it was Mr Adams' books which literally changed my life.
Not funny but true and making me feel quite nostalgic.
(Sat 17th May 2008, 12:03, More)
Douglas Adams'
books genuinely shaped the way my life turned out.
I always loved to read and Mum took us to the library every week once we were old enough to join. The first book I got out on the exciting day that I was allowed an adult library ticket was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. After reading that I inhaled everything Douglas Adams ever wrote.
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul was the first book I ever yearned to own. I asked for it for Christmas and spent the day curled up on the sofa reading it in sheer delight. The joy of ownership was a revelation to me and probably accounts for the insane number of books that are now piled up around the house in precarious heaps - all well read and well loved.
As a teenager it was Adams that partly inspired my list of fictional men that I judged potential boyfriends by. The list of characters I would run away with still stands as Ford Prefect, David Lister, The Doctor and Mr Darcy.
When we got the internet one of the first idle searches I did in Google was for Ford Prefect and that was how I ended up on H2G2 (before it got all weird and BBC owned). I loved that site and went along to the first birthday meet-up they held in Hyde Park. It was there that I met Mr Innogen and eight years later we are still very happy indeed.
So I can honestly say that it was Mr Adams' books which literally changed my life.
Not funny but true and making me feel quite nostalgic.
(Sat 17th May 2008, 12:03, More)
» Turning into your parents
Bag mania
There is an odd inherited trait in our family to put things in plastic bags. Not just things that might escape in your kitchen cupboard like a split bad of rice or what have you but anything at all. My Nan's handbag rustled with her purse in one little bag, her brolly in another. Nothing went in naked - each had its own little plastic wrapping.
Mum started doing the same thing about ten years ago with the added refinement of using the little wire ties to keep things secure. Oh how we laughed at her.
Now it's got me. Recently I was struck with the idea that a packet of pain-killers wouldn't disintergrate in the bottom of my bag if I slipped it into its own little bag. Then my diary was getting a bit scrappy looking and I thought a bag might reduce the wear. I haven't reached the full-on purse in a bag stage yet but it's only a matter of time. Does stop your stuff getting wet in the rain though...
(Mon 4th May 2009, 18:28, More)
Bag mania
There is an odd inherited trait in our family to put things in plastic bags. Not just things that might escape in your kitchen cupboard like a split bad of rice or what have you but anything at all. My Nan's handbag rustled with her purse in one little bag, her brolly in another. Nothing went in naked - each had its own little plastic wrapping.
Mum started doing the same thing about ten years ago with the added refinement of using the little wire ties to keep things secure. Oh how we laughed at her.
Now it's got me. Recently I was struck with the idea that a packet of pain-killers wouldn't disintergrate in the bottom of my bag if I slipped it into its own little bag. Then my diary was getting a bit scrappy looking and I thought a bag might reduce the wear. I haven't reached the full-on purse in a bag stage yet but it's only a matter of time. Does stop your stuff getting wet in the rain though...
(Mon 4th May 2009, 18:28, More)