Day 69: Knitting, Chair Aerobics, and Other Perils of Retirement: My 100 Days of Summer Challenge

 Back in 2022, as I was preparing for retirement, I innocently typed “retirement hobbies” into a search bar. Big mistake. The internet cheerfully informed me that the two pillars of post-working life were knitting and chair aerobics. Not simultaneously, of course—that might be a bit too adventurous. Wouldn’t want to startle a retiree into a cardiac episode with too much excitement.

Fast forward to this year’s 100 Days of Summer challenge. On Day 3, the heavens opened in a dramatic downpour, and as there was nothing else to undertake (well, housework was available but frankly... no), I dusted off my trusty knitting needles. Rainy days and wool just go together somehow—at least better than dusting and vacuuming do.

With misplaced confidence and no small amount of optimism, I grabbed a pattern and cast on without really reading the fine print. Rookie error. It turned out I had committed to knitting a batwing jumper. In one piece. Yes, ONE piece. Very 1980s, very ambitious, and very much a journey.

I started at the bottom front, happily clacking along, until I reached the sleeves. That’s when the pattern called for casting on more stitches. And more. At one point, there were 278 stitches on a single needle. I swear I was knitting a tent. Holding it up became an upper body workout that would put any gym session to shame. Who needs resistance bands when you've got wool and overconfidence?

There were moments of pause, especially when the weather improved and sunshine lured me away from the woolly beast. But eventually, I returned, determined. Yesterday, I cast off the final stitch, sewed it together, and gave it the grand “Tah-Dah” it so richly deserved,

So now what? Is it time for Chair Aerobics?

Let’s not get carried away.

Day 64: A Star is Bloomed - Claire, Jacqueline and the Show that Changes Everything!

 

It was with a heady mix of nerves and pride that we LMVGers made our way en masse to the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre to see Little Shop of Horrors. Sure, it’s a beloved musical. Sure, we all know the tunes. But this night was different. This was history in the making — the first ever fully Irish professional production of a musical. Yes, you read that right.

Ireland has always had a vibrant musical theatre scene — just spend five minutes at the AIMS Awards and you’ll see the sheer breadth of talent. But for decades, if you wanted a professional career in musical theatre, you had to leave. London was the dream, Broadway the fantasy. No one had the balls to take the risk of producing a full-scale musical professionally, in Ireland, with Irish creatives at the helm.
Until now.
Enter stage left: Claire Tighe.

Director, Choreographer and co-producer of Little Shop of Horrors

I’ve known Claire since she was a kid. When I did my first show with LMVG (Finian’s Rainbow, back in the last century!), Claire was one of the children in the chorus — but even then, her stage presence sparkled. She was the dancer in the group, with a quiet confidence that made it clear she was going places.

To this day, I still tell people (whether they want to hear it or not) that she once had to dance behind me in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Technically it was because the show was over-16s and she had just reached the age during the run… but in my version, it’s because I was the better dancer. Let me have that one.

Later, when I was in Chess with Mullingar, I recommended Claire for her first choreography gig outside LMVG. She showed up as "the young one" and by the end of the first rehearsal had them all eating out of her jazz hands.

And go places she did. Claire went on to start the mighty Helix Panto — no small feat, especially when going up against the Gaiety and the Olympia. She turned it into a phenomenon. I happily wash and iron costumes for this panto, because who wouldn’t want to be a small cog in her glorious machine?

But what truly sets Claire apart isn’t just her talent — it’s her poise, her calm, her leadership. I’ve seen her navigate tech week meltdowns, diva dramas, and even drunken audience members mid-show, and she never loses her cool. Like the time she gently defused a volatile situation during West Side Story by offering panto tickets to a slightly intoxicated mother and her unruly son. It wasn’t just clever — it was grace under pressure. And as an aside, West Side Story went on to win Best Overall Show That year!

So here we were, a group of theatre nerds, all dressed up and clutching our programmes, heading to see our Claire make history. 

From the GAA hall in Leixlip to BGET

Our giddiness grew, when on the way in we spotted this! You know you have it made when you're plastered over the side of a bus!

The nerves weren’t about whether the show would be good — we knew it would be. They came from knowing how many things can go wrong in live theatre, and desperately wanting this to go right for her.

Just to add to the excitement, the part of the ditsy, loveable Audrey was being played by our very own Jacqueline Brunton. After her knockout turn on Dancing with the Stars, we knew she’d knock it out of the park.

And she did.

From the first note to the final bow, Little Shop of Horrors sparkled. Claire’s direction was slick, inventive, and packed with heart and humour. The set (bravo, Aidan!) was spectacular. The choreography (Claire and Jen — take a bow!) popped. The costumes dazzled (well done, Kevin). The plant? Sinister perfection (thank you, Chris). The performances sang — sometimes literally. And Jacqueline? A-MAZ-ING.

The audience were on their feet, and we were among them — a gang of proud LMVGers, clapping until our hands ached.

I sat beside Rita, Claire’s mother, calm and beaming. Maybe it’s in the genes. Maybe it’s years of watching your daughter rise, fall, get back up, and rise again. Whatever it is, I hope that everyone knows that tonight wasn’t just a show — it was a moment. A beginning. A revolution in sequins and spotlight.

Claire, if you’re reading this — just remember me in your Tony's speech, yeah?

Bravo.

Day 59: The Vampire Strikes Back

 There’s something about donating blood that always makes me feel like I’m walking into a scene from a vampire movie – albeit one with friendly nurses and free digestive biscuits..

Back in the day, I tried many times to donate, but thanks to a pesky medical condition, I was politely declined each time. One nurse even went so far as to recommend I see my doctor immediately after my iron levels practically waved a little white flag during the screening. After that humiliation, I gave up trying.

Fast forward to the start of COVID. The country was locking down, everyone was feeling useless and patriotic in equal measure, and an appeal went out for blood donors. I thought, "What’s the harm in trying one more time?" To my utter shock, they accepted me! At the time, I joked that standards must have dropped. But since then, I’ve donated many times, borderline on occasion, but always scraping through.

Today was another donation day. The usual finger prick, the drop of blood on a slide, the little machine… BEEP! I jumped. “Is something wrong?” I asked, heart racing. “Not at all,” the nurse smiled. “It’s just saying your levels are perfect.” Perfect? Me? That’s not a word I hear associated with my medical history very often.

I was ushered to my chair – the one marked with a big ‘L’. “Am I a learner?” I quipped. “No,” she laughed, “just your left arm today.” Well, obviously."

In went the needle. The nurse watched the tube. “Whoa,” she said, “you’ve got a very fast flow.” I panicked slightly – fast blood flow sounds like something that might land me in A&E. “Is that good or bad?” I asked. “It’s great. Do you drink a lot of water?” she said. I nodded vaguely, though my ‘5 glasses a day’ is more of a loose ambition than a habit.

Still, it got me thinking: how does water speed up blood donation? Does it flood the bloodstream and create a fast lane? I was pondering this as she whipped the needle out. Done already. My neighbours in the chairs beside me were still chugging away.

“Well done, that was quick!” she said. Honestly, it felt like I’d won a gold star.

But the real win? Realising that my health today, in my ahem more mature years, is better than it was in my twenties. That’s definitely worth raising a glass to… of water, naturally

Days 56-58; A Holiday is a Holiday, even 20 minutes from home.

 

Music and dancing have been at the heart of my family for as long as I can remember. We learned to waltz and jive not in fancy dance halls, but around the kitchen floor at home, with Mam and Dad leading the way. They were beautiful dancers, and thanks to them, we’ve all carried that love of music with us into adulthood. So it’s no surprise that we often head off to country music weekends whenever the mood strikes us. We've travelled the length and breadth of Ireland and even made it to Spain a few times for a good dance and a bit of craic.

It's a good job I know how to jive. These weekends are the only places you're still asked " Are ya dancin'?" and then you might be swirled around like a cement mixer!

So when word reached us of a "good one" coming up, there wasn’t much debate about going. Well… there was just one small question: this particular weekend was taking place in Trim, a mere 20km down the road from us. Did we really need to pay for two nights in a hotel practically on our doorstep? We pondered it for all of five seconds and said, "Why not? A hotel is a hotel, no matter where it is. And if we forget anything or leave the immersion on, sure we can just nip back!"

And so it was that I found myself packing a suitcase for my 'holiday' in Trim.

I can confidently say it was worth every euro. The Knightsbrook Golf Resort and Spa is absolutely beautiful. 

We were wined and dined, serenaded with great music, spoiled with a few drinks, and surrounded by like-minded people who, like us, were simply there for the fun and the laughter.

On Saturday morning we went for a stroll around the grounds, being careful to avoid all low flying golf balls!

Then we popped into town to meet our other brother for lunch. It was lovely to break up the weekend with a bit of family catch-up. 

I mean it's not like he lives a million miles away!

But I have to say, one of the unexpected highlights came on Sunday morning when I woke up with that familiar dread: “Oh lord, I have to drive home. I’m wrecked.” Then the penny dropped… “But it’ll only take 20 minutes!” Happy days.

It just goes to show — it’s not about how far you travel, or how exotic the destination is. It’s about the people you’re with, the music in your heart, and the laughter shared along the way.

A great weekend. A great reminder: a holiday is a holiday, even if it’s practically in your own backyard

Day 54: Whole Lotta Sole

 

I had been really looking forward to seeing Kinky Boots at the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. That said, there had been a bit of a ticket mix-up beforehand. I spotted two good seats for the Tuesday night of an otherwise sold-out run and snapped them up. Feeling smug, I rang Emer to tell her the good news. “Oh, I was just about to ring you,” she said. “I got us two tickets for Kinky Boots on Wednesday!”

Great minds… and all that jazz.

In the end, Wednesday suited us both better, and I managed to offload the Tuesday tickets without too much trouble. I was especially looking forward to this production because Johannes Radebe from Strictly Come Dancing was starring as Lola.

That said, I did have one niggling worry. Sometimes, when a “name” is brought in to boost ticket sales, they don’t quite deliver. They might be able to sing, but can’t act. Or they can act, but they can’t dance. Or worse still — they can’t do any of it convincingly.

Thankfully, my concerns were entirely unfounded. Johannes absolutely holds the audience in the palm of his hand. Camp, charismatic,and captivating he dazzled throughout. The biceps rippled, the smile sparkled, and the dance moves were, unsurprisingly for someone of his calibre, flawless.

But what really surprised me was his voice.

My favourite number was “I’m Not My Father’s Son”, Here, he proved he’s not just a showman, but a singer capable of emotional depth.

A lovely touch at the end was when the backstage crew were brought out to take a bow along with the cast. As a person who has spent many's a show side of stage or back stage it was lovely to see them acknowledged.

It’s always the sign of a good night when you leave the theatre smiling, in good form, and ever so slightly tempted to strut your stuff in a pair of high heels...or at the very least, go home and shave your legs!

Day 53: Drenched but Determined

 

Ah, the good old Irish summer — just when we were starting to get notions about having a long stretch of sunny days, the weather gods have arrived back with a vengeance to remind us exactly where we live. Gone are the clear blue skies, and back are the trusty “sunny spells and scattered showers,” or as Met Éireann says, “intermittent rain.” Showers, me @rse!

I decided to head out for my daily walk, lured by a bright patch of sunshine. As I passed my rain jacket in the hallway, I paused. That age-old Irish dilemma played out in my head: Will I bring it, or will I be sweltering under its plastic embrace when the sun stays out? Perhaps it's maturity — or simply hard-earned experience — but this time, I grabbed it. “Just in case,” I told myself.

And boy, was I glad I did.

Barely twenty minutes down the road, the heavens opened. Not just a shower, but buckets of rain, horizontal sheets driven by a playful breeze that somehow managed to find me even as I attempted to shelter under a tree. There’s a particular kind of wet that soaks you to the bones and then laughs at you for thinking you could stay dry.

With no alternative but to wait it out, I stood there watching the road glisten and the puddles multiply. True to form, within minutes the clouds parted, the sun reappeared as if nothing had happened, and the whole world seemed to steam. I pressed on with my walk, noting with amusement the water vapour visibly rising from my rain jacket — years of teaching the water cycle finally paying off in real-life observation.

As I trudged along, neighbours passed me by in their cars. There was the usual beeping of horns, windows rolled down with cheery encouragement shouted out:
“Good on ya, Noeleen!”
“Keep her lit!”
And my personal favourite:
“Are ya trying to shrink in the rain?”

Now, wouldn’t that be a business idea? Skip the diet plans, forget the fat jabs — just dance in the rain and let Mother Nature do the work. Every cloud would definitely have a silver lining.

Edit: Later this evening this was the weather

As I said earlier...just wait a minute.

Day 52: Photographic Evidence, as if it were needed.

 

. My brother uncovered an actual photograph — proof, if any were needed, that I wasn’t imagining the idyllic days we spent in Ringsend, laughing and living without a care in the world.

The photo shows my brother, mid-chase, legs a blur, trying to reclaim his beloved trike from none other than Lizzie. There she is, cheeky and determined, pedaling furiously down the street as if she owned it. In that moment, she probably did. She was a character!

Looking at it now, I’m struck by how much joy radiates from something so simple. A stolen trike. A brother’s indignation. A chase that probably ended in laughter rather than tears. These were the small dramas that made up the fabric of our childhood — moments of pure, unfiltered life.

Ringsend wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling. It was freedom on two wheels (or three), it was scraped knees and unstoppable giggles.It was Lizzie, speeding away, daring anyone to catch her.

Sometimes we wonder if we’ve romanticised the past. If those days were really as golden as we remember. But then a photograph like this surfaces, and suddenly it’s all real again. The sunshine, the laughter, the family.

So here’s to Lizzie, to my brother, to that trike, and to all the laughter-filled moments we carry with us from Ringsend. Proof, at last, that we weren’t just dreaming.

Day 51 of #100daysofsummerchallenge : Game, Set, Couch

 

Thankfully, today was one of those blissful days where I didn’t need to leave the house — or even the couch — to have a great time. Why, you ask? Because it was Men’s Finals Day at Wimbledon.

There are very few sports I’ll watch religiously, but tennis has always been top of my list. My love for the game stretches right back to childhood. In our house, daytime or early evening TV was generally off-limits (we were from the generation sent outside to play until dinner time). But Wimbledon fortnight was the glorious exception.

Mam loved tennis, so by default, so did we. Years later, even when Mam occasionally mixed us up, she never confused Federer, Nadal, or Djokovic!

My earliest tennis memories are from the epic battles between Borg and McEnroe. Naturally, I was Team Borg — the cool, calm Swede. Later came the golden years of Federer vs Nadal. I won’t insult you by clarifying whose side I was on.

I honestly believed my passion for the sport might fade once they retired. But then along came Carlos Alcaraz and reignited the spark. Which brings me to today: happily whiling away another gloriously sunny afternoon on the couch, devouring strawberries and cream — it would’ve been sacrilegious not to.

Sadly, it wasn’t Alcaraz’s day. But Sinner played superbly, and I can already feel the stirrings of a new rivalry obsession taking root.

#Wimbledon #TennisFan #StrawberriesAndCream #WorthStayingInFor

 

Day 50: The Swings, The Stories, and the Summers That Shaped Us

Today, the Famous Five headed off on an adventure to... Ringsend.

Now, before you recoil in disbelief — “Why on earth would anyone spend a glorious sunny Saturday in Ringsend, of all places?” — allow me to give you some context.

Auntie Peggy had a very dear friend  Lizzie Slevin. Lizzie was a relative, though don’t ask me to unravel how exactly — the family tree’s a bit tangled. Lizzie was an absolute character, with that unmistakable dry Dublin wit. She lived on South Dock Place, and Auntie Peggy was a frequent visitor. Lizzie, in turn, regularly hopped on the bus down to Raharney to visit the country cousins, always bringing the Twinkle comic for me. She’d laugh, saying she’d be reading Twinkle on the bus while the man beside her read The Financial Times — and I knew which of them had the better read.

Summers were spent "on holiday" in Ringsend, descending en masse upon Lizzie’s little terraced house — a typical two-up, two-down. Never mind that Lizzie kept lodgers or that the kitchen was barely wider than a hallway. Never mind that the toilet was in a little shed at the bottom of a tiny concrete yard. Meals still arrived as if by magic, fit for royalty, and laughter echoed through every room.

Just to put this in the context of the current housing crisis we did hear that the house was sold several years ago for...1.6 million euro!!!

But best of all? The Swings.

Just around the corner, this concrete playground with its six swings, tall slide, and seesaw was our Disneyland. We’d wolf down breakfast and race over the moment the gates opened, spending all day there, unsupervised but entirely free, before returning to Lizzie’s for dinner and bed. Simpler times. Happier times.

Fast forward to 2025. Auntie Peggy, now just shy of 92, mentioned that she’d love to see Ringsend again. So we rallied. And as serendipity would have it, my nephew Damian had lived nearby many years ago and kindly offered to be our driver and tour guide.

We worried it might be too warm for a nonagenarian to be traipsing around, but we needn’t have fretted. We could barely keep up. She knew exactly where to go, who had lived where, and what shop used to be what.

The Fab Four

First stop: the playground.

There it was. Still called The Swings. I’d always assumed that was just our nickname for it — but there it was, on the gate. 

It’s more colourful now, the ground soft with modern spongy safety material. Health and safety gone mad! But still, unmistakably, our playground.

Peggy having a moment to reflect

Three generations                         

Then, the short stroll around the corner to South Dock Place. It was like stepping through a glitch in the matrix. The street looked exactly the same. New windows and doors, perhaps, but the spirit of it hadn’t changed. I could almost hear our childhood shrieks of laughter, calling each other home for tea. And as I write this, I realise something: I just called it “home.”

We took the essential photos outside the front door. No, of course we didn’t knock and ask the new owners if we could have a peek — though we were sorely tempted.

We made our way back, tired, sun-kissed, and content. Today, we didn’t just revisit a place — we stepped back into the best summers of our lives.

Day 49: 30 Years. One Dress and a Lot More Support.

 

This morning began with a rare and welcome sight—the sun shining bright before the day had even fully arrived. It was the kind of start that holds promise, and it felt particularly fitting as it coincided with Ladies Day at Kilbeggan Races.

Even more fitting? This year’s theme was sustainable fashion. The idea is simple: beg, steal, borrow, or better yet, upcycle something you already own. If you’re particularly talented, you can even make your outfit from scratch. (Unfortunately, my knitting project is still very much in progress, so no joy there.) 

 Sewing isn't exactly my strong suit either, So instead, I turned to that most trusted source of inspiration—the back of my wardrobe. And lo and behold, buried at the back was the dress. My favourite dress of all time. The one that got me to the final of Best Dressed at Kilbeggan Races back in 1995. Yes, you heard that right—1995.. A whole 30 years ago! How very last century. A different time, but the elegance of the dress felt just as relevant today.

Usually, planning an outfit for Kilbeggan involves factoring in the inevitable rain. But today, I almost had to revise everything because of the sun! In the end, the dress still worked its magic. I’ll admit, I had high hopes of making the final again (purely for the full-circle moment), but the standard this year was clearly sky-high, and I didn’t make the cut.

Still, the real victory? The fact that I could still zip up the same dress after three whole decades. Okay, I needed a little more scaffolding in the chest area (gravity has not been kind), hey ladies—you know what I mean.

As I stood in the sunshine, surrounded by beautiful fashion and vibrant energy, I felt something greater than nostalgia. I felt a quiet pride. The dress may have been a nod to the past, but wearing it again in the present was a reminder that style is not always about what’s new—but what still makes you feel confident, graceful, and uniquely you.

In the end, I’m not sure whether the award for “most sustainable” belonged to the dress—or perhaps, to me.

Day 46: Trading Shopping Bags for Culture

 

After yet another day of meandering through shops—this time in Tullamore—I decided it was about time I did something a little more enriching with my afternoon. As I passed the Esker Arts Centre, a poster advertising two exhibitions caught my eye. On a whim, I decided it was time for a cultural intervention.

As One Leans into Another – Naomi Draper

First up was As One Leans into Another by Naomi Draper. I cautiously navigated the floor installations, genuinely afraid I'd step on something delicate and undo hours of the artist's work.

At first, I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking at. A diverse mix of materials and objects filled the space—some cast or moulded, others found or gifted. But once I read the brochure, things started to make more sense. My favourite pieces were the fruits and flowers. Draper had cast their internal cavities to “give form to the invisible spaces inside them.” (Nope, I didn’t come up with that myself, but I’m glad someone did because it made me love the work even more.)

I've no idea why these took my attention but they did.

velvet and cotton folding package on tray with mushroom coral on jesmonite pillow 

four envelopes with butterfly specimens

     Dandelion Cordage

Marked Lands – David Fox

Next, I wandered into Marked Lands by David Fox. His oil paintings juxtapose the energy of urban graffiti with the stillness of rural Ireland’s built structures. (Yes, that’s another borrowed line from the brochure—but an accurate one!)

What struck me most was how much my opinion shifted. I’d always dismissed graffiti as scribbles on walls ruining perfectly good stonework. But walking through this exhibition made me stop, look again, and realise that graffiti can be a genuine, dynamic art form. So much so, I looped back and viewed the entire exhibition a second time.

The Bottle Banks - This was my favourite and I wish I could have afforded it.

In the end, it was an afternoon well spent. I may not be a creative myself, but I certainly know how to appreciate the work of those who are. And with free admission, I managed to experience something meaningful and save myself a fortune by staying out of the shops.

Culture and savings? That’s what I call a win-win.

Day 45: E is for Enough? I don't think so.

 

The greatest lie you can tell yourself is, “I don’t need to get petrol now. I’ll get it in the morning.”

It started off so innocently. I glanced at the fuel gauge, saw it flirting dangerously close to the big E, and thought, It’s fine. I know my car. There’s easily enough to get me home and to the station tomorrow.
That tiny voice of reason in the back of my head politely cleared its throat—Are you sure? But I silenced it with the confidence of someone who’s been burned by their own laziness before and learned absolutely nothing.

Fast forward to this morning: I had places to be, people to see. I started up my car and was immediately greeted by a blinking warning light that screamed, “I told you so.” It informed me that I had 14km of petrol left, which was technically fine—it’s only 11km to the nearest station in Ballivor. Also, my car’s a hybrid, so it switches to electric every few kilometres. I’d get there. Probably.

The first few kilometres were uneventful. Then I noticed the electric mode wasn’t kicking in Was this because the journey had only started and so the battery was too low to kick in? Did I even know how that worked? Absolutely not. I’d never been in this position before..

The petrol range began to nosedive.

I started driving like a nun with a hangover—hands clenched, eyes ping-ponging between the road and the dashboard. Radio off. Air con off. I wouldn’t even breathe too deeply in case it used extra fuel.

And then, like an oasis rising from the tarmac, I saw it—the petrol station. I was going to make it, and I still had 4km of petrol left! I let out the breath I’d been holding and—my heart nearly stopped. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, but no… I wasn’t imagining it.

The two rear petrol pumps were boarded up. And the front ones? Being actively excavated by a digger tearing up the forecourt.

Panic surged up in my throat. What now? There’s no other station in Ballivor. The nearest one is in Kinnegad—10km away. I didn’t have enough fuel to get home, never mind Kinnegad. Maybe the electric would kick in fully if I ran out of petrol? But I couldn’t be sure. And I definitely couldn’t risk it.

I pulled cautiously onto the forecourt and crept around to the other side of the pumps…

THERE WAS ONE WORKING PUMP.

I could’ve screamed with relief. I leapt out of the car, ignored the pounding digger, and filled that tank to the brim.

On the way home, I made solemn vows to myself. I’d never cut it that close again. I’d be responsible. Proactive. The kind of person who fills up at a quarter tank.

Until next week. When I’ll lie to myself all over again.