My covid car kit came in handy at a Garda lockdown checkpoint

For the past 4 weeks I’ve managed to studiously avoid going beyond 2kms of my house. I would rather have root canal treatment – without anaesthetic – than venture further than my garden right now.

The thought of collecting the shopping conjures up traumatic childhood memories. When I was five, there was a nun from the Sisters of (no) Mercy, who made us sit in the wicker rubbish bin if we got a maths question wrong. I spent an inordinate amount of time in that bosca bruscair, sitting atop peeled banana skins and Agnes Mc Ginty’s congealed tissues, legs akimbo, feeling, in equal measure, mortified and petrified. Every morning, I clung to my mother’s coat tails and begged her to let me stay at home.

I recounted this story to himself, sitting in my office wicker paper bin for dramatic effect (not the best look in an Easter Bunny onesie) but he, like the Sisters, showed no mercy. “It’s your turn to collect the shopping”. It was indeed.

When I saw the check point, I slowed and noticed there were two gardai standing shoulder to shoulder talking to the driver of a car coming in the opposite direction. They weren’t standing back, let alone 2 metres. One of the officers gestured for me to open my window. I was so close to the other car, I could have shook hands with the driver, so, complying with the gardai’s instruction would have exposed the two officers and both drivers to the risk of  Covid-19 contagion, as well as breaching social distancing legislation.

Smiling, I reached for my Covid car kit and held up my handwritten sign asking the Garda to step back 2 metres. He tried, but realised there was no space to move. Bizarrely, he then gestured for me to get out of the car, but the other vehicle and officer were still there so I shook my head and held up my sign again. He eventually went around the passenger side, which was better, but not quite 2 metres.

Disconbobulated, I opened my mouth and out came the jarring twang of a Donnybrook banker. There’s only one thing worse than having a D reg car (luckily I don’t) at a lockdown check point in Galway and that’s having a Dublin accent (which is ill advised in Galway, irrespective of lockdown) and even more hazardous again is being found in possession of a D4 inflection, at a lockdown checkpoint in Galway.

Having split my childhood between a housing estate in Santry, where Doberman Pinschers doubled up as fashion accessory and personal security, and the rest of the time tramping hay and footing turf on the grandparents’ farms in Loughrea and Charlestown respectively, it was far from D4 that I was reared. Yet, there I was with my frazzled head saying “grewsareees” (groceries) and “gorda” (which is Spanish for “fat” and potentially offensive).

To be fair to the garda, he was doing his job in incredibly stressful circumstances. I have family and friends who are gardai, nationally, and my thoughts turned to them and their safety. They, like all our essential workers, have fears like the rest of us, but they still have to go to work every day. They reassured me that they either stand back 2 metres or speak to drivers through closed windows.

They were more concerned about PPE, which was requested by the Garda Representative Association three weeks ago for Gardai on patrol, a lifetime in a pandemic, but distribution has been slow and haphazard. Some officers said they had to buy their own hand sanitisers and wipes initially to clean the patrol car before and after shifts.

Even in Britain, where the government’s handling of the coronavirus crisis has been shambolic and where PPE is like hen’s teeth, frontline police officers have received face masks. The police federation of England and Wales has issued guidance recognising that social distancing cannot always be maintained, such as when apprehending criminals, presenting an infection risk to officers, the public and the health service. Therefore, “Face masks, gloves and hand sanitisers are the absolute basic we would expect our colleagues to be provided with in this current crisis”

The gardai are fathers and mothers foregoing their children’s bedtime stories – indefinitely - so that ours can sleep soundly. They’re delivering food parcels to our vulnerable and checking in on our elderly, so that we can stay safe at home. While we’re waiting for Charlie Flanagan to catch up with the rest of the world and protect our gardai who, like the other emergency services, are putting their lives at risk to protect us, we can do our bit by staying home and avoiding unnecessary journeys.

Míle buíochas, a Ghárdaí Síochána. Fanaigí sábháilte.

"Good enough" Parenting will do in a pandemic

This is the latest in my series of lockdown chronicles for The Connacht Tribune. Warning: contains disturbing examples of very bad parenting. Do NOT do this at home....

https://connachttribune.ie/good-enough-will-do-for-parenting-in-a-pandemic/

Lockdown drug heist on Gort High Street!

This 👇 was published in this week's Connacht Tribune. The newspaper I read as a child & inspired my career path - as a journalist, as opposed to a drugs mule. If you're ordering your groceries online, might be worth bunging in a copy 😊

“Never put off till tomorrow what can be done today”. That was one of my mother’s many mantras. One day into lockdown, I realised the wisdom of those words. When my son looks back on the photos, he’ll never forgive me for missing his barber’s appointment. He already looks like a cross between Terry Wogan and Che Guevara and he’s only twelve.

Bad hair is one thing, but running out of medication is another. The prescription that could have been renewed anytime in the last six months, was about to expire. Given that I’d rather poke my eye out with a sausage than cross the threshold of a pharmacy in the midst of a global pandemic, the oversight unhinged me.

We parked in front of the chemist, which was opposite the bank. As I alighted the car, donning dark glasses, a snood pulled over my face and a hat bearing unfortunate similarities to a balaclava, I shouted at my husband, “Keep the engine running. It’ll need to be a quick get away!” (we had a click and collect slot booked in Eurospar afterwards).

There I was, in the middle of Gort high street, looking for all the world like a drug addled bank robber on the verge of a panic attack, wondering why people were staring at me.

I had emailed the prescription in advance and explained that I didn’t want to go inside, so the pharmacist kindly arranged to meet me at the door when she opened after lunch, at precisely 2pm. For the deal to be done as precipitously as possible, I just had to keep a cool head and have the exact money ready.

Grappling with coins in gloved hands is a bit like Carlow’s quest for the Liam MacCarthy Cup. If you stick at it long enough it might happen, but the odds aren’t great. Knowing that Covid-19 can last on surfaces for several days, touching the coins was not an option. 

At 1.55pm, I upturned my purse on the pavement and got down on my hands and knees to count out €7.30. Onlookers weren’t sure whether to call the guards (the balaclava) or the men in white coats (all of the above).

By 1.57pm, I was upright again and, although I thought I had clawed back a semblance of composure, people were still staring and I’m pretty sure I caught my child exchange a conspiratorial eye roll with a passer-by, as if to say, “Who’s your one”.

I wasn’t always embarrassing. There was a time, pre Covid-19 (and motherhood), that I was borderline cool. I once blagged a meeting with the British media’s equivalent of the Dali-Lama, by telling his PA that I was a Colombian drugs mule. Like all white lies, there was an element of truth to the story.

I did live in Colombia, where I had ridden a mule and, on my return, I was stopped by security at Gatwick for acting suspiciously. I was wearing dodgy dark glasses and surreptitiously sniffing suspected narcotics in the baggage area. Fortunately, Vicks nasal spray is not deemed a class A drug in Britain (though that could change after Brexit), so I was released without charge.

At 2pm sharp, the pharmacist gingerly made her way to the door and the deal was done. Inexplicably unable to move, I stood there, unravelling like my granny’s woollen shawl, when a middle aged woman smiled from afar and said, “You’ll be grand, love”. That was another of my mother’s mantras and I realised that, in the panic of lockdown, I had forgotten the anniversary of her death. That gnawing, barbed wire feeling in my belly was unadulterated grief, which, buried under and exacerbated by Coronavirus, was debilitating.

I can bribe my family for hugs, so I’ll be grand, but what about friends, neighbours, homeless and those in direct provision, who are alone? The world is in lockdown but isolation, though crucial, amplifies loneliness, which presents the humanitarian challenge of finding new ways to reach out to the vulnerable in our communities. Be it a smile, a phone call, a kind word or deed. “There...”, as my mother would say, “...but for the grace of god, go I”.