Category: Uncategorized

• 

If I was to sit the Leaving Cert exam tomorrow, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t do too well. Apart from not knowing any of the answers, I wouldn’t be able to write for very long without getting cramps in my fingers. They’ve lost the ability to hold a pen.

The only time I use a biro these days is when I need to sign something. Everything else is done on a keyboard so when I need to write anything longer than a greeting on a birthday card, my fingers develop a mind of their own. They wrap themselves around each other and try to hurt me.

Concentration would be another issue. I struggled to stay awake as a teenager, so I have a healthy respect for all those who sat the exam this year after all they’ve been through. They did well to keep studying in the middle of a pandemic but unfortunately, the points for some third-level courses went up this year so many of them were left disappointed. Not everyone got what they wanted.

It’s difficult to see a clear path forward in the aftermath of such disappointment so there’s no point in us telling young people it’s not the end of the world but they will be ok in time. Things have a way of working themselves out. It isn’t easy though and choosing a career at eighteen years of age that will provide them with all they want from life is a big ask. Job satisfaction is important but if a survey in the States is anything to go by, not many find it.

According to a 2018 survey by Gallup, 66% of employees worldwide are either not engaged in or are actively disengaged in their job. But despite this disengagement, most employees don’t report that they hate their jobs. More often, they lack passion for their roles and don’t care enough to innovate, create, or put anything more into their jobs than the bare minimum.

It’s a long day at work if you’re just going through the motions yet, according to the survey, two thirds of employees are doing just that. Even those who are perfectly happy in their workplace can see their circumstances change overnight, causing them to become disillusioned. A change of boss, or a change in conditions can alter the dynamic so while achieving job satisfaction is important, it’s also a bit of a lottery.

With that in mind I wish my nephew the best of luck with his choice. Euan did very well for himself and got 589 points. He wants to study astrophysics and I have no doubt he will make a great fist of it but where that leads him is a mystery to me. So, to throw some light on it, I looked at the definition of astrophysics in the hope of some enlightenment.

Astrophysics is a science that employs the methods and principles of physics in the study of astronomical objects and phenomena. As one of the founders of the discipline said, Astrophysics “seeks to ascertain the nature of the heavenly bodies, rather than their positions or motions in space–what they are, rather than where they are.” 

Among the subjects studied are the sun, other stars galaxies, extrasolar planets, the interstellar medium and the cosmic microwave background. Emissions from these objects are examined across all parts of the electromagnetic spectrum and the properties examined include luminosity, density, temperature, and chemical composition.

So, there you have it, couldn’t be clearer. It’s all about stuff but the fact that I haven’t a clue what it means doesn’t matter a whit as long as he’s happy. I hope he will enjoy going to work every day and be content with his lot, but you don’t have to be a high achiever to be satisfied at work.

There is a very contented man working as a cleaner in Cyprus. He cleans an apartment complex and maintains the cleanliness of the poolside area and the pathways and tiled areas around the complex. He does it very well. He has a trolly with various bit and bobs and you can hear him trundling around the place from 7.30am every morning as the wheels of the cart bounce over the tiles.

Every day without fail, he meticulously mops the tiles around the large pool area which isn’t easy when temperatures are tipping 40 degrees. His routine never varies. He closes all the umbrellas and arranges all the sun beds, making sure they are parallel with each other, and the legs of each sun bed are lined up along the edge of the tiles at exactly the same distance from the boundary walls.

He has a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) so he likes things to be organised even though he knows as soon as the pool opens, his entire arrangement will be destroyed. Umbrellas and sun loungers will be scattered all over the place, but he doesn’t mind. He takes great pride in his work, and it shows. Everyone appreciates the effort he makes to keep the place clean.

Job satisfaction can be found in the strangest of places. Justine Hudson is an Arctic marine mammal biologist who studies whales and walruses in Canada, and she describes herself as a snot collector.

She goes out in a boat looking for whales and when she finds them, she turns off the engine and the whales approach her out of curiosity. She has a little petri dish attached to a long pole, and when the whales come up for air, they exhale through the blow hole, and she collects the sample on the petri dish. That mucus provides her with a lot of data.

She loves her job, but I bet it wasn’t on her radar when she left school.

• 

While I was in the depths of man-flu recently, I saw lots of advertisements on TV offering advice about end-of-life issues. They were warning me to be prepared for the rising cost of nursing home care and the expense of funerals, burials, cremations etc. They were also popping up on the laptop and on my phone telling me to be ready for the end. I was beginning to wonder if they knew something I didn’t.

It was all a bit grim but on the other hand, they do have a point. The only two certainties in life are death and taxes so none of us will escape and I became very conscious of this while lying on my death bed, waiting to meet my maker.

My wife said it was just a head cold and showed little interest in my condition, but I knew otherwise. It was a serious dose of man-flu. I had a cough, a stuffed head and a sore throat and my life was hanging by a thread. It was touch and go.

I didn’t get much sympathy from my family and in a way, that’s understandable. You see, women don’t appreciate the suffering us men go through from this horrendous illness because we keep it to ourselves. It’s our own fault. How can we expect them to know the extent of our suffering when we don’t tell them what man-flu is really like? We are blessed with a high pain threshold and prefer to suffer in silence. Rather than be a burden, we just battle on quietly without causing a fuss.

That’s how it was with me and, as usual, I got very little support. They seemed to think my deteriorating condition was a form of entertainment and I’m sure I even heard them laughing downstairs on several occasions. They never called a doctor or arranged palliative care and the only medication I was offered was a Lemsip. There was lots of eye rolling going on and they even suggested I should get out of bed.

In the height of my delirium, my wife was rushing around getting ready for work and never even thought to bring me some breakfast in bed. She never checked my temperature either which was obviously spiralling out of control, but I struggled on manfully.

When she left, I made a huge effort to get up and tidy the house. I made my way cautiously downstairs and struggled to make some breakfast for myself. I didn’t want to add starvation to my growing list of ailments. It’s amazing how resilient men can be when faced with adversity.

After the breakfast, I spotted some clothes in the washing machine and contemplated putting them out on the line. I weighed up the pros and cons and decided if I dressed appropriately to keep warm, I could just about manage it. Hypothermia was a genuine concern for a person in my weakened state, so I decided to bring my phone with me to summon assistance in case I collapsed from exhaustion.

So, I put the clothes in the basket, went outside and made it to the line. It was a bit cloudy, and I wondered if I had badly miscalculated. Getting caught in a shower of rain could finish me off, but I hung on bravely and finished the task. It was time for a well-earned rest after that, so I headed for the recliner.

Later that afternoon I ventured out again and brought the clothes back in. I gave them a short run in the dryer before folding them nicely and placing them on the counter. Surely this would earn me a pat on the back when herself came home from work. It wasn’t to be though.

As soon as she came in the door, she looked at the clothes and then looked at me and asked if I noticed anything? I knew by the look and the tone of voice that trouble wasn’t far away. Apparently, there was a smell off the clothes but because my nasal passages were almost completely ravaged due to my deteriorating condition, I hadn’t noticed.

It seems my wife had put the clothes into the machine before she left for work but never turned it on which meant I had put a load of dirty washing on the line, dried them and folded them neatly. After more eye rolling, she put the clothes back into the machine while mumbling something I couldn’t quite understand. It didn’t sound very complimentary though.

The efforts of the day had taken their toll and I could feel a relapse coming on, so I went for another lie down. While lying there with my life ebbing away, I had time to reflect. I realised that even if by some miracle I did manage to pull through, I could very well end up needing full time care at some point in the future, and so I discussed it with my family.

I told them that if it gets to a stage that I can no longer look after myself or I can’t tell night from day, or can’t take a shower by myself then, I want to go somewhere. I don’t want them dealing with the stress of having to look after me. Let the professionals take over and don’t waste a single miniute feeling guilty or sorry about it.

They nodded and looked as if they were trying hard not to smile which made me suspect they had already come to that decision themselves. I got the impression that guilt was not going to be an issue for them. In fact, I suspect they may already have a facility picked out for me so from now on I’m going to have to sleep with one eye open.

• 

Niamh Walsh wrote an article in the Irish Mail on Sunday that attracted a lot of criticism. In it, she launched an attack on the lack of dress sense exhibited by some Fianna Fail politicians attending their recent think-in at the Slieve Russell hotel.

She described the party as “failing to keep up appearances” and mainly focused on female representatives. She suggested the Louth senator, Erin McGreehan, should have “run an iron” over her dress. She also suggested TD Mary Butler looked like she had been “tango-ed” dressed in orange, adding that, “a circus tent is a more appropriate place for that orange suit.”

Offaly TD, Barry Cowen, came in for a bashing too. It was strong stuff and both the journalist, and the newspaper later apologised.

I’m glad she didn’t live near me back in the sixties. Back then most of us dressed the same; white shirts, black or grey trousers and black or brown leather shoes no matter what the occasion was. There was no such thing as casual wear, at least not where I lived.

Mothers had it tough trying to keep us young lads in clean clothes and decent shoes. Fashion was the least of their worries Between growth spurts, climbing trees and playing football on the road, everything wore out quickly. Heels on socks and elbows on jumpers were patched regularly to extend their life and nobody commented on the state of the clothes. Until the Yanks arrived.

The family next door had relatives who visited from America occasionally including two boys around my own age who were a constant source of wonder. They didn’t dress like the rest of us. They were tanned, and they wore jeans, sneakers, and brightly coloured t-shirts while the only colour we sported was a green shade of envy.

When that style eventually made its way across the pond, we soon learned how to dress casually in clothes that were comfortable and colourful. I adapted to it very quickly and the thought of wearing any kind of formal clothing today makes me wince.

These days, I escape to Cyprus as often as possible and as soon as I land, it’s shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops for the duration of the stay. I don’t need a large supply either because I can rinse them out in the washing machine, throw them out on the balcony and they’re ready for use again the following day. It’s an easy, uncomplicated lifestyle until the topless men arrive.

There is a time and a place for men to go bare-chested and going to the supermarket without a shirt is neither the time nor the place. There is only one thing worse than standing next to a semi naked sweaty man at the check-out and that’s sitting next to him while trying to eat lunch. It’s an assault on the senses and shouldn’t be allowed but others take a different view.

The Irish Naturist Association is the home of naturism in Ireland, and they are celebrating more than 50 years of naturist activities in Ireland. They say naturism is a wholesome family activity which promotes body confidence and harmony with nature through social nudity in a non-sexual environment. According to them, it has proven mental and physical benefits such as body acceptance regardless of size, shape, or age.

The volunteer organisation, whose 500 members range in age from teenagers to octogenarians, aims to promote body positivity through activities such as naked cycling, swimming, yoga, and hiking. Weekly events take place usually in remote parts of the country. Naked sea swimming is particularly popular with new recruits.

Not everyone is happy with naturists. Some locals in the UK were complaining about them running around Sherwood Forest, making a nuisance of themselves. The forest is a well-known tourist spot having been made famous by Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men who, legend has it, robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. I imagine Mr. Hood wouldn’t have been too keen on nudists either. Ordering them to hand over their jewels could have been misinterpreted.

OK, so some people feel the need to run around naked in public. I can understand how that might be pleasant in the heat of the Mediterranean sun, but even on a good day here, goose pimples would never be far away from someone going around in the nip. And the cold isn’t the only enemy.

I can’t cut the grass fully dressed without being attacked by blood thirsty insects who usually leave a reminder of their assault in the form of an itchy lump somewhere on my body. I shudder to think where those lumps might be if I was naked.

If you are brave enough to risk it and would like to experience naturism, Echo readers won’t have to travel far. The Irish Naturist Blog suggests Clonakilty Bay might be a good place to start. They have identified some quiet and secluded coves around Clonakilty Bay, which they say are suitable for naturism. Who knew?

The group says there are no officially approved naturist beaches or sites in Ireland so nude swimming or sunbathing in a public place is illegal. However, provided you use discretion and common sense, they say you should have no problems.

There was none of that carry on in the sixties. Men on the beach dressed fashionably. The legs of the trousers were rolled up to the knees, the sleeves of the white shirt were rolled up to the elbows and a white hankie sat on top of the head with a knot in each corner. Now, that was style.

• 

According to the Irish Cancer Society, about 3,890 men are diagnosed with prostate cancer every year in this country. To put it another way, one in seven men will get a diagnosis of prostate cancer during their lifetime. A scary statistic whichever way you look at it. It’s a disease that is more common than you may have thought but on the positive side, it’s very treatable when caught in time.

As with all cancers, early detection is vital, so men need to be aware of the symptoms. They should also know it’s possible to develop prostate cancer without displaying any symptoms so it’s all about awareness and being proactive. It’s important to get checked regularly.

This is Prostate Cancer Awareness Month which fits in nicely with my medical calendar. September 25^th, 2018 was the date of my surgery so this is the third anniversary of the removal of my own diseased prostate. I’ve just had my most recent check-up and I got the thumbs up from my consultant. So far, so good and that marks another milestone but I’m not getting complacent either.

Blood tests continue to be part of my life now and that’s ok. I don’t have a problem with that because it was a simple blood test that saved my life three years ago. I had none of the usual symptoms associated with prostate cancer, but my annual check-up showed a rise in my prostate specific antigen (PSA) level. I had no idea what that was until my GP explained it to me.

PSA is a protein produced by normal cells in the prostate and also by prostate cancer cells. It’s normal to have a small amount of PSA in your blood, and the amount rises slightly as you get older and your prostate gets bigger, so while a rise isn’t proof that something is wrong, it can provide an early indication that further exploration could be necessary. It’s a red flag.

In my case, the GP recommended further tests which led to an MRI and then a biopsy and the results confirmed I had prostate cancer. It didn’t come as a shock to me because I had been preparing myself for the worst, but I didn’t like that diagnosis either. Nobody likes the word ‘cancer’ especially when it’s associated with their own body.

Once I got that news, there was only one course of action as far as I was concerned – get it out of me as soon as possible. That was three years ago, and my life has pretty much returned to normal since then. I know of other guys who were going through it at the same and it turned out fine for them too, which proves that a diagnosis of prostate cancer isn’t the end of the world if it’s caught in time and the best way to achieve that is to have regular blood tests.

I’m alive today to tell the story thanks to a timely blood test, a good GP and the skill of a surgeon. A bit of good fortune helped too because I was told after the surgery that the cancer was about to migrate beyond the prostate. Surgery was the right option for me. There was no time for messing around.

Looking back on it now, the tests leading up to the diagnosis were the most stressful part of the journey. The actual surgery and the recovery were nothing to get too worked up about and the stress disappeared as soon as the prostate did. Follow-up visits with my consultant continued every three months for the first year and then became half yearly after that and now they have been reduced to an annual check. All good so far.

I have written about this topic previously, and I have no difficulty talking about it. I will talk to anybody who wants my opinion on any aspect of the process from start to finish and I am more than happy to do so at any time. Other guys who have gone though it are doing the same thing because we all appreciate the importance of creating awareness.

As with all cancers, early diagnosis is vital which is why there are so many awareness campaigns taking place throughout the year. This is life and death stuff, so we need to keep talking. A friend of mine told me he was having some prostate trouble but was reluctant to discuss it with his GP because he didn’t feel comfortable talking about it. That needs to change. There is no room for embarrassment here.

I have received a number of phone calls in recent times from men who have been diagnosed with prostate cancer. They mostly wanted reassurance in relation to the surgery, the recovery and possible side effects and that’s ok. We need to be having these conversations and spreading the message so here it is again.

Get regular blood tests and don’t ignore any symptoms. Not all prostate issues are cancer related but if cancer is an issue, then it’s very treatable when caught in time. It doesn’t always require surgery either.

According to the Irish Cancer Society, prostate cancer often grows slowly and doesn’t cause any symptoms for a long time, if at all and usually only when it has grown large enough to disturb your bladder or press on the tube that drains urine.

The symptoms include passing urine more often, especially at night, trouble starting or stopping the flow, a slow flow of urine and pain when passing urine. Less common symptoms include blood in the urine or semen and a feeling of not emptying your bladder fully. 

If you have any of these, don’t ignore them. Contact your doctor. Better again, don’t wait for signs, just get a blood test.

• 

Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher are a celebrity couple. I don’t know them, so I have no idea why they are celebrities, but they caught my eye because of something they said in relation to washing their children. They were married in 2015 and have two kids, but they don’t bathe them every day. In fact, they don’t wash them unless “you can see dirt on them”. They reckon if you can see the dirt on them, clean them. Otherwise, there’s no point.

I’m not so sure about that. How many times during the Covid pandemic have we been told to wash our hands? You can’t beat the power of soap and water the experts keep telling us. But while hand washing is essential, there are some like Kunis and Kutcher who think washing the rest of the body isn’t as important.

Robert H. Shmerling, MD, Senior Faculty Editor, Harvard Health suggested it’s not clear that a daily shower accomplishes much. In fact, he says, a daily shower may be bad for your health. Normal, healthy skin maintains a layer of oil and a balance of “good” bacteria and other microorganisms. Washing and scrubbing removes these, especially if the water is hot. As a result, skin may become dry, irritated, or itchy.

A guy called David Whitlock had a similar outlook, but he took it to extremes. He claims he hasn’t showered or bathed for 15 years, yet, according to himself, he doesn’t have body odour. “It was kind of strange for the first few months, but after that I stopped missing it,” he says. “If I get a specific part of my body dirty, then I’ll wash that specific part” – but never with soap. OK, but I’d like a second opinion on the lack of odour claim.

According to National Geographic, there is an alternative method of cleaning ourselves called “forest bathing”. The term emerged in Japan in the 1980s as a physiological and psychological exercise called shinrin-yoku (“forest bathing” or “taking in the forest atmosphere”). The purpose was twofold: to offer an eco-antidote to tech-boom burnout and to inspire residents to reconnect with and protect the country’s forests.

The Japanese quickly bought into it and researchers began studying the benefits of forest bathing, providing the science to support the belief that time spent immersed in nature is good for us. Forest bathing is not just for the wilderness-lover; the practice can be as simple as walking in any natural environment and consciously connecting with what’s around you.

I wouldn’t put any money on that catching on here. I can’t imagine too many strolling around Glengarriff Wood or Gougane Barra in the middle of November with their clothes piled neatly in the boot of the car. You might return with a cleaner body than the one you started out with, mainly due to the rain, but hypothermia could very likely be your next challenge.

But not all dirt is on the outside of the body. Trimethylaminuria is a word I came across recently. It’s a bit of a mouthful and not something you want to become too familiar with because it’s a rare metabolic disorder in which the body is unable to break down trimethylamine, a nitrogen-containing compound that has a pungent fishy odour.  The more common name for this condition is “fish odour syndrome”.

It has been described as smelling like rotting fish, rotting eggs, garbage, or urine. As trimethylamine compound builds up in the body, it causes affected people to give off a strong odour in their sweat, urine, and breath. The intensity of the odour may vary over time and can interfere with many aspects of daily life, relationships, social life, and career. Some people with trimethylaminuria experience depression and social isolation as a result of this condition.

It’s easy to see how that could get you down. Nobody wants to be giving off bad body odour, but the good news is that treatment is available.

There are some people out there though who pollute the air simply because they just chose to ignore their personal hygiene even though their treatment is a lot less complicated. All they need is soapy water. BO is like a thick fog that lingers and once you smell it, it’s difficult to ignore. Especially if you happen to be in a confined space like an office or a car where there is no chance of escape. There is really no excuse for it; just use the shower.

While there’s no ideal frequency for showering, experts suggest that taking short showers several times a week is plenty for most people unless you have other reasons to shower more often like the poor gong farmers. They would certainly have had good cause to shower more often than most.

Gong-farming was a profession dating back to 15th century England. Gong was the term used to describe the chamber pot and its contents. In those days, when the chamber pot was full, it was emptied out onto the street. Larger towns and cities often had public latrines as well, like giant septic tanks, but they were generally few in number, so they were overused and filled up quickly which is where the gong farmer came in.

A gong farmer’s job was to remove human excrement by shovel and take it out of the town by cart. These guys could only work by night and the conditions were terrible, but it was also dangerous work, and many died from the poisonous fumes. The gong was used to fertilise fields, and dedicated gong-farmers would dig through the muck in search of lost money.

Having emptied a septic tank myself back in the day, I know it would take more than a walk in a forest to get rid of that smell.

• 

Belarussian people can’t travel outside their country easily. The borders are well marshalled, and the necessary documentation required for them to travel abroad can be difficult to come by, which is why the recent movement of large groups of people from Belarus into Poland and Lithuania raised a few eyebrows.

The Belarussian authorities have been accused of sending migrants to Poland as revenge for giving refuge to the Olympic sprinter who criticised her management team for forcing her to run a race she hadn’t trained for. Lithuania has also reported a surge in illegal border crossings from Belarus which they suspect is being orchestrated by President Lukashenko. That doesn’t surprise me.

Back in the noughties I spent a bit of time in Belarus while working for Chernobyl charities. The airport in Minsk in those days was a drab affair with no colour and little or no lighting. Everything was variety of grey and images from old Cold War movies came to mind.

It felt oppressive too. Officials didn’t have much interest in small talk or niceties. On one occasion I was in the airport, returning home after taking a group on a familiarisation trip to areas of the country affected by the fallout from the Chernobyl disaster. Some of the group had checked in overweight luggage so there were charges to be paid and I was quickly identified as the person responsible for the finances.

Before you could say ‘Lukashenko’, two guys appeared next to me, one on either side. The two burly men in leather jackets guided me down a long dark corridor with old wood panelling and glass on both sides, like you would expect to find in a local authority building in Ireland back the fifties.

I was shown into a room where another man sat behind a desk. Nothing was said up to this point and the expressions on these characters made it clear we were not meeting for tea and scones. I was told how much to pay and readily handed over the cash before being sent back to my group.

I was an experienced police officer at that stage, but I still felt intimidated. While I wasn’t in any danger, I got a sense that you could easily disappear in that country and never be heard of again.

On another occasion, after spending two weeks eating from tins and cooking on the side of the road, a gang of us gathered the night before the flight home, for a well-deserved decent meal. Fifteen of us entered the restaurant, one of only a few that could accommodate a number like that at short notice. After the meal, I got the bill and, as I was the man with the kitty, went off to pay.

By the time I got to the kiosk, the bill had doubled. Annoyed but not completely surprised, I argued the toss. It wasn’t my money, so I felt responsible for getting value. The discussion came to an abrupt end when, once again, a couple of rough looking characters appeared beside me. My buddy, Simon Walsh, came to my assistance and it didn’t take us long to realise we were fighting a losing battle, so we quickly decided to pay up and suffer the loss.

That was typical of the atmosphere we operated under in Belarus. It felt as if our every move was being watched; it probably was. It wasn’t unusual to see the KGB lurking in the shadows when we were in the middle of nowhere delivering aid to remote villages. We just had to tolerate that for a few weeks at a time unlike the natives who lived permanently under that regime.

Despite their circumstances, we always found the local people to be welcoming, hospitable and friendly. Even though they didn’t have much, they were always willing to share what little they did have. Food and accommodation were always offered even if it meant doing without themselves. They don’t have an easy life, and many have accepted their fate because as far as they’re concerned, nothing will change. They have little hope.

They have no reason to believe in democracy because for them it doesn’t exist. I remember the first time I was in that country during an election, I innocently asked our interpreter who he thought would win. A teacher by profession, I knew he would have a good handle on the political landscape, but he just laughed and said Lukashenko would win with 85% of the vote. I asked how he knew this, and he said, “Because he always does.”

Election posters of Lukashenko were everywhere but there was no sign of the other candidates. International observers watched the polling stations for violations but when the polling ended, the ballot papers were reportedly collected by Lukashenko’s army and taken away to be counted, far from prying eyes.

That was my experience of life under Lukashenko. It was over twenty years ago, and I remember telling many at the time that his reign would be short lived. Pressure from the civilised world would force him out I told them. The EU was spreading and would soon engulf Belarus. How wrong was I? If anything, Lukashenko has become even more emboldened and continues his reign of terror without any interference.

The most recent incident he is suspected of being involved in, concerns the disappearance of Vitaly Shishov, a 26-year-old Belarusian opposition activist living in the Ukraine. Those close to Shishov said he was happy with life, and they can’t understand why he was recently found hanged in a forest. There were scratches on his face and opponents of Lukashenko are pointing the finger of suspicion at him.

That’s just one of many crimes Lukashenko has been linked to, but he seems to be untouchable.

• 

About fifteen years ago, I spoke at an international policing conference in Barcelona on the subject of community engagement. I described the systems we had in place Ireland back then that allowed the police, the local authority and the community to work together to solve local issues. I had an attentive audience.

When we broke for coffee, I was surrounded by curious and envious police officers who wanted to know more because this was an alien concept to them. Looking at the fractious relationships that exist between the community and the police in some jurisdictions, that envy was understandable.

Much has changed in An Garda Siochana since then though, and I’m not so sure we would get such favourable reviews today. Our style of policing was unique in the relationship is had with the community. It was a natural style of engagement that occurred in every town and village in the country. Change is in the air though and with the Force currently being led by senior officers, recruited from the PSNI and other police forces, that’s not surprising.

The PSNI have a different style of policing which is understandable given the nature of their environment and the issues they deal with, but I don’t want us following their path. Or any other path for that matter.

The Commissioner will soon be treated more like the CEO of a company and the functions of the Garda Inspectorate and the Policing Authority will join forces to become a new Policing and Community Safety Authority.

An Independent Examiner of Security Legislation, will be established to have oversight of national security while the finances of GSOC will also be separated further from An Garda Síochána to give it more independence. It will assess and oversee the performance of the Gardaí and will have the power to conduct unannounced inspections of Garda stations.

The Policing, Security and Community Safety Bill is described as the biggest reform of policing in a generation but while reform and oversight is essential, we don’t want a police force that is removed from engaging with the public and buried in administration either.

I heard a priest talking about the number of his colleagues leaving the ministry because of the pressure they are under. The increased burden of administration was one of the main factors and while they are all getting older, their workload is growing. Because of the shortage of priests, some parishes are being combined, which is doubling the workload for the remaining priests with all the associated administration that goes with it.

He said they’re getting less time to do what they should be doing, working among the community, and instead, they’re getting bogged down in paperwork, balancing books, keeping records and filling forms. They feel they’re losing touch with the people, and I fear An Garda Siochana could be heading the same way.

In my time, most of us entering the Garda Training College in Templemore had preconceived notions of what the daily routine of a member of An Garda Siochana was like, based on the experiences we had from observing our local gardaí at home.

We saw them patrolling the streets on foot, driving patrol cars, dealing with the bad guys and keeping the community safe. As members of the public, we didn’t get to see the work that went on behind the scenes which was probably just as well, or we may have been turned off the idea.

Arriving in my first station in 1980, I soon appreciated the enormous amount of paperwork involved in policing. Reports, statements, record keeping, logs, returns, creating summonses were all part and parcel of a tour of duty. There was paper flying everywhere and it was usually in duplicate or triplicate, but the focus remained on being out and about dealing with the public. 

As technology improved over the years, the demand for paper increased. We thought the introduction of PULSE, the garda computer system, would revolutionise the way the Force kept records and would reduce paperwork to allow gardai to spend more time out on the street. It didn’t quite work out that way.

The computer records were backed up with hard copies which meant there was more paper in circulation than ever before. Additional records were required and, as we have seen in the past, they weren’t always accurate either despite the technology. Change doesn’t guarantee improvement.

Policing was simpler in1980, even though we didn’t have much. We wore bull’s wool uniforms that itched in the heat of summer and weighed a ton when they got wet in the winter and the raincoats didn’t keep out the rain. In fact, they made you sweat so much that you got drenched even when it wasn’t raining.

We got on with it though and the backbone of the job was patrolling the streets and talking to people. Getting to know the community was vital because you couldn’t solve anything without their help and their local knowledge. It was an uncomplicated, but effective, style of community policing.

That simplicity was diluted when management decided the organisation would function better using a business model. Business jargon entered the garda vernacular and policing plans were introduced in the noughties, but they didn’t always make sense, especially from a community policing perspective.

Reforming and modernising An Garda Siochana is all very well and it is an organisation that’s far from perfect. The vast majority of gardai are decent, well-motivated people who appreciate the fact that the most important weapon in the garda arsenal is the relationship they have with the community. That is our uniqueness and the only way to develop that is to be out and about, talking to the people, like we did in the old days. But I don’t see much of that now.

• 

The Coronavirus may have put a damper on lots of outdoor activities over the last year and a half or so but it would seem that the various lockdowns and travel restrictions haven’t affected the canine community. They have been roaming freely, if the amount of dog poo on the footpaths is anything to go by. There’s so much of it now, I’m beginning to wonder if Covid-19 acts as a laxative in the dog world. It would explain a lot.

This national problem has been highlighted constantly and for as many years as I can remember but nothing has changed. The lack of control of dogs by irresponsible owners is a serious issue and while local authorities have been banging on about it for forty years or more, there is more dirt visible now. Local authorities continue to complain that it is a very difficult problem to deal with.

As previously reported in the Echo, the former Mayor of County Cork Mary Linehan-Foley said some time ago that it is currently too hard to prosecute people for failing to clean up dog poo. She was speaking at a launch an education programme to encourage people to clean up after their dogs and said dog fouling is a “horrible, horrible issue” that has been on the rise.

“I think the fine should be quite strong,” she said. “At the end of the day maybe €100 or €150, which is the way it is now, but there is not a lot of fines being issued for dog fouling because people have to be caught in the act for proof.”

Since the Act was introduced in 1997, Cork City Council have issued a total of four fines, all of which were issued in 2017 and all have been paid. So, with only four fines issued in 21 years in Cork, what‘s the point in increasing the amount of the penalty? The councils say the difficulty in issuing fines for offences under section 22 of the Litter Pollution Act 1997 is that the litter warden must actually witness both the dog depositing faeces and the person in control of the dog, neglecting to remove it.

Awareness campaigns seem to have little impact. I have tried raising awareness with a few dog owners myself and I may as well have been talking to the dog. It’s a fact of life that some owners open their front door in the morning and hunt their pets out to foul the neighbouring property with unsightly poo. It doesn’t bother them because they have little or no regard for their neighbours or the community generally. They couldn’t care less so they’re certainly not going to take a blind bit of notice of a fancy awareness programme.

The answer is enforcement but that will require money and resources, because dog wardens and litter wardens need to be out and about to catch the animals fouling the streets. Catching them shouldn’t be too difficult. The dogs leaving their deposits are not being brought in from other towns or jetting in from Germany and Spain or arriving on cruise ships. They’re not being smuggled in from neighbouring villages to pollute our towns before being snuck back out. They’re local dogs and they don’t travel far from their own front door to leave their heap.

A spokesperson for litter management at City Hall previously suggested that the Litter Pollution Act 1997 requires a litter warden to practically catch them in the act. “This presents a particular challenge as the majority of dog fouling takes place early in the morning or late in the evening when dogs are being walked or let out unsupervised when the wardens are not on duty,” he said.

We all know that most of the fouling takes place early in the morning and late in the evening so surely that’s the time the dog wardens or litter wardens should be on duty. Burglars would have a field day if gardai only worked during daylight hours and there would be chaos too if the fire service only tackled fires that occurred during the day.

Local authorities need to be more inventive. If it is too difficult to secure a prosecution for this problem under the Litter Pollution Act, then use the Control of Dogs Act. That act requires dogs to be licensed. It also clearly states: ‘Your dog must be accompanied by and be under your effective control or the control of another responsible person if it is outside your home or premises or the home or premises of the person in charge of it.’

One estimate put the number of dogs in this country at 800,000 with less than a quarter of them licenced. Enforcing that piece of legislation would have an immediate and positive impact and would educate irresponsible dog owners more effectively than any awareness campaign. If a dog is roaming a public area with no owner in sight, seize the animal and put it in a pound. If owners had to collect their pets and pay pound fees plus a fine, they might be more inclined to take care of them.

Alternatively, we could look to the authorities in Beijing for some guidance. They launched a campaign against pet owners and banned residents from raising dogs taller than 35 centimetres after Beijing’s police department received complaints about people walking dogs without a leash, dog fouling and dogs causing a nuisance.

Owners’ refusal to tie up their dogs or clean up their dog’s droppings annoyed many visitors to the parks, so dog walking has been added to a blacklist of activities that are banned. To ensure the effectiveness of the campaign, the authority has recruited about 1,000 volunteers to watch for violations.

Now, there’s a tactic that will raise some awareness.

• 

Treasure hunting sounds interesting but, as someone who can never find the car keys or my wallet, even when they’re staring me in the face, I don’t see any point in trying to find something that’s well hidden. Some people can’t help themselves though.

There was a report on BBC recently about a current investigation taking place in Northern Ireland over the alleged removal of artefacts from a protected wreck of the Spanish Armada off the County Antrim coast.

Reports were received that divers may have taken objects from La Girona, an Armada warship, which sank off Portballintrae in 1588. Access to the site of La Girona is restricted under the Protection of Wrecks Act (1973) and anyone diving the restricted area without a licence may be prosecuted.

The wreck in Northern Ireland waters has special levels of protection under the law and people diving on wrecks around the coast have been asked to check the rules beforehand. The removal of artefacts without the proper authorisation could land you in hot water but it’s easy to see the attraction.

In 1942, the SS Tilawa was on its way to South Africa when it was sent to the bottom of the Indian Ocean by a Japanese submarine. With it went its cargo of 2,364 bars of silver valued at £32 million. The bars were headed for the South African Mint to be turned into coins.

They laid there undisturbed until 2017 when Ross Hyett, 67, a retired racing driver led a treasure-hunting mission to recover the bars of silver from the wreck and brought them to England where a dispute over ownership is being decided in court. Either way, Mr. Hyett will surely benefit financially from his find.

Metal detectorists like a good search too. I noticed a guy walking in the sea in front of me on the beach one day. The water was up to his knees, and he had a set of headphones on him. In one hand he had a metal detector and in the other he had what looked like a small sieve with a long handle.  I don’t know what he was hoping to find but a days’ beach combing would hardly bring in enough to cover a mortgage. Unless you know the right places to look of course!

Charlie Parker wrote in the Times about the largest gold nugget ever found in Britain. It was a 22-carat piece of gold discovered in a Scottish river by a treasure hunter. The location of the find is being kept a secret because they want to avoid attracting large numbers of gold hunters to the area.

Weighing in at 121.3g, it is the biggest of its kind in the UK and is thought to be worth £80,000. It was in two pieces when he found it, but when they were put together, they formed a doughnut shape with a hole in the middle. One mineralogist suggested the piece is so old that the hole could have been made with a Neolithic antler pick, which was used by farmers in the Iron Age.

If that’s true, then it’s highly unlikely the original owner will come back to claim his nugget so the finder hopes it will be purchased by a museum, but it may have to be handed over to the Crown estate. The authorities must be notified about finds like these. Keeping quiet will land you in bother.

We’ve had finds in this country too. A father and son unearthed treasure with the help of a metal detector in what was called the “archaeological find of the century” back in 1980 when the Derrynaflan Chalice was found in Tipperary.

The chalice was discovered in a bog, and it is thought that the hoard was buried in the ninth or tenth centuries by Viking raiders. Michael Webb and his son were using metal detectors to hunt for buried objects at the site of a former monastery in County Tipperary when they found an item that reminded them of the Ardagh Chalice. They knew they were on to a good thing, so they removed the items and brought them home. They didn’t know what they should do with them, so they contacted an archaeologist in UCC.

That set things in motion and the site immediately became an official dig. More artefacts were unearthed, and the Webb’s were given an award of 10,000 Irish pounds. They thought that was too low, so they refused to accept it and went to court instead, and the High Court ruled in their favour. The value of the hoard was estimated at 5.5 million Irish pounds and the government had to pay that amount or return the objects to the Webb’s.

The government appealed that ruling to the Supreme Court who ruled the hoard belonged to the State, but the Government wanted to encourage other hunters to report finds to officials, so they made a payment of 50,000 pounds to the Webb’s.

Not all detectorists set out to find hidden treasure though. In 1992, Eric Lawes was using a metal detector in a farmer’s field in East Anglia, in the UK, helping a friend to locate a hammer that he had dropped earlier. When his machine beeped, he thought he had found the missing lump hammer but what he discovered was a little more valuable.

He found what is now known as the Hoxne Hoard, a priceless Roman “treasure chest” of 14,780 gold and silver coins, plus 200 pieces jewellery, ornaments, and tableware.

Eric received £1.75m for his find, and although there was no legal requirement to do so at the time, he shared the cash with the farmer on whose land he had been searching. He also found the elusive hammer.

• 

I was surprised to learn that nearly half of all marriages in the United States end in divorce and almost half of those occur in the first 10 years of marriage, especially between the fourth and eighth anniversary. This is where the ‘seven-year itch’ comes from presumably.

The “seven-year itch” is when romantic partners experience turbulence and a potential point-of-reckoning around seven years together. Viewed as a critical juncture, the seven-year itch is defined as a time when couples either realise their relationship isn’t working, or they feel committed to their relationship.

Well, with 37 years of marriage behind us, my wife and I can safely say we negotiated that hurdle but there could be more traps ahead. The Austin Institute for The Study of Family and Culture using data from 4,000 divorced adults, identified the top reasons for a break-up in the United States to include infidelity by either party; spouse unresponsive to needs; incompatibility; spouse immaturity and emotional abuse.

Lack of communication is another pitfall, because they say good communication is the foundation of a strong marriage. Not being able to communicate effectively quickly leads to resentment and frustration for both, impacting all aspects of a marriage. OK, I get that, but we cracked this one very early in our relationship, because I learned my place. My wife does the talking and I do the listening, problem solved.

Trouble with finances is another issue and how the family money is handled can cause lots of stress. Again, it’s not a problem in my case because my wife looks after it all. She says I’m useless with money and who am I to argue. (See above)

Not being prepared for marriage was cited by 75% of couples as the reason for the demise of their married life particularly among younger couples who discovered that wedded bliss didn’t always automatically follow the ceremony, but it was the next one that really made me sit up and take notice. Lack of equality.

When one partner feels that they take on more responsibility in the marriage, it can alter their view of the other person and lead to resentment. It’s all about sharing and I think this could be our stumbling block. This could be the thing that sends us to the lawyers.

When Gaye and I started out in our married life, we didn’t have too many luxuries. We had a newly built bungalow in the countryside, which wasn’t unusual in those days, but it was far from finished. Even when we returned from our honeymoon there was still lots to be done but we had the basics.

It was 1984 and we were building it by direct labour. Money was tight, so we added bits and pieces as we got the finance. It was an exciting time to be starting out in our new life and we were in no hurry. Well, I was in no hurry.

While waiting for built-in wardrobes to be fitted, we used a few lengths of timber nailed together with extra nails extending from the cross piece to use as hooks for hanging our clothes. It wasn’t pretty but it was effective. It also helped that we didn’t have too many clothes.

When the new wardrobe arrived, the space was evenly divided at first. I had the left-hand side and Gaye had the right. We co-existed peacefully for a short while, but I soon began to feel intimidated. I was gradually being squeezed out. It wasn’t long before I had very little room, but my requirements were modest, so I didn’t complain. I thought everything would work out fine because I was young and naïve.

I was never into clothes but my wife, on the other hand, was and by the time we left that house she had wardrobes filled in several rooms but still complained about not having enough space. This, I was told by older and wiser friends, was the way of the world: easier to just accept it.

When we moved house in 2006, we went upmarket and inherited a walk-in wardrobe. An actual room for nothing but clothes. I could hardly contain myself, but my excitement was short lived. I foolishly thought this was for both of us, only my wife had other ideas. She had no intention of entering into a fair distribution agreement. Fifty-fifty was not in her vocabulary so I was reduced once again to a smaller allocation.

Over time, that space has almost disappeared completely. I am now reduced to a foot stool in the bedroom where I lay my few bits and pieces. I’m lucky to have it. From time to time, I get grief about having my clothes piled high on that little stool because, apparently, it looks unsightly but I’m not going to fight over it because I’ve heard too many scary divorce stories.

Like the one about the guy who got a divorce from his wife of 15 years. They split everything 50/50, including the house and the land around it. The ex-wife decided to build a house right behind the existing house, so the backs of the houses faced each other. Apparently, the ex-wife spent a lot of time in her backyard, so the ex-husband saw her all the time. He bought a female dog and named it after his ex-wife. He got great mileage from shouting at the dog: ‘Sally, you bitch! Get in here!’: ‘Sally you bitch! Quit pissing on the flowers!’ or ‘Sally, you bitch! Quit digging in the dirt!’

The police were called a couple of times, but there was nothing they could do because the dog was registered under the name of Sally, and it was in fact a bitch.

That sounds too stressful, so I’ll just make do with the stool.