You know you are getting on when...

You know you are getting on when you can recall the day that you could buy eight pints for a pound, or was it a punt (for younger readers, the punt was old Irish currency, pre-euro) and could, after a hard game of handball, drink those pints before the Sunday dinner. That’s only forty years ago and today you can’t get a pint for five euros unless you visit a pub where “cash is king". We’re talking Guinness, if you were to go for one of those fancy lagers you’d have to dig much deeper into your pocket… or more likely wallet - since Visa and Revolut payments come in hardened plastic and don’t necessarily settle neatly into the trousers pockets.

You know you are getting on when you have to go down on one knee to pick up a euro and you question whether or not it is worth the effort and the struggle to return to the erect position. You know you are getting on when you go for the pliable runner, with feet damaging possibilities, rather than a well-constructed leather shoe which helps keep the chiropodist at a distance. And you most definitely know you are getting on when you have to bring the shoe-horn into action to get shod. You know you are getting on when the slopes in the lawn are non-negotiable even with a powerful Weibang power lawnmower. And don’t mention a ride-on. There are lawns where ride-ons simply don’t work.

You know you are getting on when you have to sit on the bed shoving the left leg first into the trousers and then the right before making the effort (and it requires effort!) to rise off the bed and complete the process of belting the trousers to a waist that somehow does not so neatly fit into the belt holes as was previously the case. Then you take a while to sit and settle the sinews and muscles before attempting movement of any kind… much less quick action! And, you ponder the time, the very recent time, when you could jump in left leg first, followed by the right, have the fly buttoned, zipped more likely nowadays and have the belt in place while going out the bedroom door. Speaking of which, you know you are getting on when you reflect that there has not been any great activity involving the lad in the lower regions and you begin to think that there might be something to the Viagra, something you had ruled out as abominable for years.

You know you are getting on when you can’t keep up with your walking group never mind engage in the incessant chatter that goes on while you, with tongue hanging out, are gasping for breath and dreading the upcoming hill (well slight incline, really). You don’t really worry about Greenway joggers and runners passing you out, not to mention cyclists who are more of a nuisance than a competitor but, it is disappointing when walkers, especially young wans, just fly past without so much as a by your leave. There was a time when sharpened elbows represented a hazard for overtaking walkers. 

You know you are getting on when you think that Nephin or the Reek or Slieve Carr (Corr Sliabh) or Bireencorragh are once more manageable only to be advised by well-intentioned and honest people not to be daft. God be with the days!

You know you are getting on when you silently congratulate yourself, after a three-course meal, for not dropping a drop of soup or gravy on your new shirt and then face the embarrassment of being told, quietly, most of the time, that there’s a dribble on your pullover. You know you are getting on when you pour the milk into your mug but most of it ends up in the saucer with well-intentioned people advising you to have an eye test. You know you are getting on when you hear, more often than you would like, your fly is open and to zip it. Either button or zip it tends to be an embarrassing admonition, prompting a shy glance downwards, followed by a sideways shift to effect a hasty repair.

You know you are getting on when you find yourself defending the hay rake as a means of gathering up autumn’s woeful fall of leaves and dismiss the suggestion that a leaf blower would make the job so much easier. You know you are getting on when you internally drop the bravado and ponder whether or not a leaf blower would make sense, especially now that they come with batteries attached. Good for the environment? Perhaps, but then do not the elements of the battery require mineral extraction in some far-off woebegone place where the extraction companies extort the poor indigenous people. Decisions, decisions.

You know you are getting on when, after Storm Darragh or even Storm Éowyn, you are threatened with incarceration in the mad house when you attempt to get the ladders out to examine the roof of the shed to see where the sheet of galvanise came from and to see what damage has been caused by the flying branch from the 40-year-old die-back ash tree.

You know you are getting on when your frequent visits to the doctor's surgery (now medical centre) means you are on first-name terms with the other clients. You know you are getting on when...

Political matters

Now, an apology, of sorts. It has been brought to my attention, somewhat grumpily, by a disgruntled but observant reader that, in this column last week I had discredited the Leader of the Opposition (great that we now have a united opposition!) by referring to Deputy McDonald as Mary Loo. That, of course, raises a few questions. Was it a typo? It could be, there is only the “i” between the “u” and the “o” on my Dell. Was it a mistake and if so was it a deliberate mistake? Is there such a thing as a deliberate mistake? Where was the eagle-eyed editor who allowed the potentially defamatory misspelling through? Was Freud at work in my subconscious and did he engineer the slip? Or was it, as my disgruntled reader suggested, further evidence of my bias against the Shinners?

The genuine answer to those questions is that I don’t know. I have to admit that I did spot it myself when re-reading the column and I said to myself (I sometimes have serious chats with myself!) correct the mistake and rewrite as Mary Lou. But I threw caution to the wind and I thought, Freud or no Freud, Mary “Loo” is not really defamatory, there might even be a bit of humour in it and dammit, I said to myself, publish and be damned. I have no doubt Mary Lou is not so sensitive as to take offence. None was intended. End of apology.

And so to matters more important. Alan Dillon was overlooked by Simon Harris when the Fine Gael leader announced his Ministers. Mayo returned two Fine Gael deputies in the General Election and narrowly missed out on a third. It was a testament to the quality of the candidates and the hard work of the Fine Gael party in the county. That quality should have been recognised. 

Harris had little room to manoeuvre as the government-supporting Independents demanded a serious pound of flesh but he has practically ignored the West and Alan Dillon’s appointment as a junior minister is a failure on the part of Harris to recognise genuine talent. At the risk of being accused of being a misogynistic member of the Men’s Rights Movement, I feel if Alan Dillon had been a woman he would have got a ministerial role. I applaud Mary Lou’s pursuit of the appointment of women to the big jobs but such advancement should be on the basis of ability and experience not on the basis of gender.