Strictly speaking whinny one owl wasnt an aunt she was tommy two owls cousin she married a man from Mullingar who had a rather fine collection of roses …whinny one owl
Mother sat there is silence ..puzzled and not amused ..releasing a plume of smoke into the sticky air of our Kitchen parlour ….father had attempted to tinderize the rice sorry cinderize ..okay burnt ….the steam from this enormous pot was loaded with starch this meant all assembled were caked in a white layer of the condensed rice …the notion of second hand smoke had been raised only last week when my two year old sister was presenting with nicotined stained cheeks from mothers cigarette fuelled combing of her daughters hair …..the starch and nicotine had begun to cake the walls furniture and red setter …..
We had a distant cousin from Australia who had practised interpretative dance centred around chairman Mao`s cultural revolution ..she mainly performed these works outside Digbeth bus station Birmingham during the mid 1980`s last we heard she married a tap dancer from gateshead who was wanted for murder of three eider ducks in Quinton .
Mothers uncle specialized in interrogating innocent people during the cuban missle crisis known among the entirely innocent community as” yellow toe”, as he wore open sandals revealing advanced brittle nail syndrome; as suffered by many of mother’s side of the family who were fron Dungannon
Fabia Ochao was my piano teacher during our erratic and frequent trips to Colombia Uncle Fabia often packed extra treats to take home in our socks jackets and teddy bears …
Uncle Tony would steal babies in venice from american tourists and sell.them during halloween on dublins moore st …not to be confused with operation BABY LIFT at the same time uncle Tony was the first member of our family to use salad dressing on salad .
In our journey , while travelling whether on the way or returning we encounter many familiar and unknown rituals …each brings their own unique challenge .There are amounts of repetition and in truth frequency will not blunt the adrenaline rush one gets as you enter the ritual itself ..The one I will describe will be familiar to those who travel to and fro along the locomotive riddled arteries of the crumbling corruption of the notion of the Grand British Railway …you enter the carriage perhaps D or C the cool air of the platform is suffocated by the warm stale blush of other breath …you nasal cavity pinches as the acrid ungainly toilet attempts to cloak faecal matter and gallons of urine …The green flickering white light guides you to your seat …which is occupied by a seemingly derelict faced descented of a plantation owner or radio officers grand daughter from a time when mer hant seamen .well anyway ….despite this detail you stand as if you are standing on a cliff edge during a tumultuous raging day storm ….and in truth all you really have to do is say ” excuse me that is my seat !!” This merry procrastination is many of the delights of modern train travel ..Torbay to Penzance ….