Month: May 2019

Back in December 2017, my mother died, and the family home became empty. In truth, it had become empty before that in some ways because when she got sick, she came to live with me and never went home again.

Even when she was living there, a large piece of life went out of her when my sister died of cancer in her mid-forties in 2005. The house was never the same after that which is understandable. It’s not the natural order for children to predecease their parents and my mother never really got over it.

She would always find a way to bring Jillian’s name into the conversation whenever she was talking to anyone. I suppose it was her way of trying to keep her memory alive.

After my father died in 2010, she struggled to motivate herself and, in many ways, I think she was merely existing. She threw in the towel. She wasn’t a religious person, but she was hoping that she would get to see her daughter again someday.

Looking back on it, we now know that she wasn’t fully fit for a long time. She neglected her health and chose to ignore some of the symptoms she was experiencing. She kept it to herself and it was only after an accident at home that the full extent of her ill health was discovered.

She got up in the early hours of the morning to go to the bathroom and fell down the stairs. She managed to get her mobile phone and she called me but when I got to her, she was shaken and had lost a lot of blood. The ambulance took her to hospital at 6am and, although she didn’t know it then, she would never return to live in that house again.

When she arrived in the hospital, it didn’t take the medical staff long to determine that she was seriously ill and didn’t have much time left. She came to live with me in October and died on the 3^rd of December 2017. It was quick, and as far as we could tell, painless, and she was comfortable right up to the end.

It took the rest of us in the family, a year to finally get around to clearing out the house and there were a few surprises in store for us when we did. My father was an avid amateur photographer for as long as I can remember, and he was rarely without a camera in his hand.

In the pre-digital age, he developed his own photographs and slides and there were thousands of them in drawers and boxes all over the house. When I was a young lad, the kitchen was often designated as a ‘dark room’ where he developed his rolls of film.

It’s great for us now that he did that, because we have plenty of material but it’s going to take some time to go through it all. Looking through some of the old black and white photographs gives a real sense of how much we have all changed over the years and brings back many memories.

I came across a photo of me sitting on the roof of a three-storey house when I was about eight years of age. My father was a small-time builder and his sidekick was a guy by the name of George Doherty. The photograph shows me sitting on the roof with George while we were taking a break from removing slates. I look very relaxed and the height of the roof obviously didn’t bother me.

My mother had written on the back of the photo that I loved to work with the lads during the school holidays and I loved to put on my overalls to be like them. She didn’t date it, but I reckon it must have been taken in 1966. There were similar photographs that were taken on other jobs, so I obviously spent a lot of time hanging out with them as a child.

There was another photo of me on a different roof with George when I was about three years old, but I presume I was just put there for the purpose of the shot. I worked with them when I was older too and I was always comfortable on roof tops because I spent so much time up there. I was at home on heights.

If those photos were taken in the modern era, the PC brigade would certainly launch a full-scale attack on my irresponsible parents, and I would probably be removed from the family home and placed in care.

There was another photo of an old Bedford van. Because my father was a builder, he always had some form of transport at a time when there were few cars on the road. The two front doors slid back from front to rear and when you pushed them back fully, they would remain in the open position. I remember in the summer time being in the van with the doors open wide and no seat belt of course then either.

On one occasion, I must have been very young, I was in the front of the van with George and I was sitting on his lap and the doors were open. I was holding on to the door frame with my left hand. My father hit the brakes for some reason and the doors slid forward to slam shut.

George reacted very quickly and threw his large paw over my small hand and he took the force of the door as it slammed shut. Only for him, I imagine my young bones would have been crushed.

This is only the tip of the iceberg and I imagine there are lots more memories to be discovered yet. 

I’m in a quandary and I need some advice. It seems, because of my advancing years, I am no longer allowed to wear what I like. According to some commentators, the time has come for me to conform to an age appropriate dress code which means there are some things I can’t wear.

My problem is that I have no idea if there are any ‘age appropriate’ clothes in my wardrobe because I don’t know what they look like. Since hearing about all of this, I’ve been thinking of refusing to leave the house in case people are laughing at me.

I could order my groceries online and have them delivered to my front door and leave them there until it gets dark. I could stay in my pyjamas all day, with the blinds pulled down and if anyone asks me to go anywhere, I could pretend to be sick.

I blame An Garda Siochana for my predicament because for 35 years of my working life, I wore a uniform every day. I had a large supply of blue trousers and blue shirts so picking an outfit for work was easy. My life was very straight forward up to that point but then I retired, and it all went to pot.

I was never warned about the fashion police. There should have been some pre-retirement training provided to prepare me for dressing myself in civilian life. I should have been told that there was another colour besides blue and that there are people who pounce on fashion mistakes. I have been let down and I intend writing a strongly worded letter to the Department of Justice.

Fashion has always been a complete mystery to me. I have no idea how I survived until now with zero knowledge of the rag trade or colour coordination but like I said, it hasn’t been all my fault.

I was abused one time because I wore a green shirt and a blue pants. I thought I looked fine, but it was quickly pointed out to me that blue and green should never be seen. I had committed a serious fashion faux pas. I battled hard to recover from that embarrassment and just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, another fashion guru wants to change the rules.

You probably have never heard of a lady by the name of Alexandra Shulman. I certainly hadn’t and I had no idea she even existed until recently when she grabbed the headlines after criticising what Helena Christensen wore on a night out.

Now that is someone I had heard of. She was a supermodel in her day and not that long ago either. She is fifty years old now and is still a fine-looking woman, but she upset Ms. Shulman.

Shulman is a columnist and a former editor of Vogue, the fashion magazine, so you would expect her to know a thing or two about the fashion world. She wrote a piece, suggesting the outfit Christensen wore on a night out with friends, was inappropriate for her age.

“There’s nothing wrong in wishing to be desirable,” Shulman said, “it’s just not best achieved wearing a black lace corset in public. You don’t have to condemn yourself to trench coats, navy blazers and a crisp white shirt once you hit the big Five-O. But, even so, surely you should call time on Ann Summers style.”

That’s a bit harsh as far as I’m concerned because Helena could wear my granny’s bloomers and she would still look fantastic. Why Ms. Shulman felt the need to be so pass- remarkable is beyond me.

She would have plenty to say about my wardrobe. I’m pretty sure that some of my clothes would have been considered trendy at some point in their lives, just not in the recent past. In fact, it’s possible that they might have been in and out of fashion a few times over the years but anyway, from now on, I am taking a leaf out of Helena’s book and I’ll wear what’s comfortable.

My wife has often accused me of being odd and she reckons I’m not like other people. She’s probably right but I’m taking that as a compliment, whether intended or not, because it means I don’t follow the sheep. I do my own thing and I’m not going to wait for the likes of Ms. Shulman to tell me what to wear or what is appropriate for my age.

I refuse to subject myself to the whim of some eccentric fashion designer who expects me to pay a fortune for something I wouldn’t use as a dust sheet.

Take torn jeans for instance. Who would have thought, a few years ago, that people would be prepared to spend their hard-earned cash on trousers that are deliberately ripped to allow the knees to stick out? That factories would produce perfectly good jeans only to deliberately mangle them by tearing them to pieces to expose various bit of flesh.

According to author, Liz Hodgkinson, jeans and shorts should be made illegal for men over 60. “You may find this hard to believe but even in midwinter, I see old men in shorts, even at the theatre. Surely, it’s time for all older men to smarten themselves up?”

If you do away with shorts and jeans for men over sixty, that will leave me with very few options, and I don’t fancy going naked. So, I have decided to be brave and leave the house. Now that the weather is picking up, I’m getting into my shorts and t-shirts and I’ll stay in them for as long as the weather permits. After that, it’s back to the jeans and if that bothers Liz Hodgkinson, well, that’s just too bad.

The Garda Representative Association has asked the Garda Commissioner to bring some clarity to the issue of restraining prisoners and wants clear protocols on the use of handcuffs for its members when performing arrests. Cases have been struck out in court because of issues relating to the use of handcuffs.

Those of you who grew up watching American cop shows will probably be confused by this. You will have seen suspects being routinely handcuffed and placed in the patrol car before ‘Danno’ took them off to be booked. Not so in this jurisdiction.

The use of handcuffs here is more restricted and a garda restraining a suspect must be able to justify the use of handcuffs in any subsequent court case. It is seen as a use of force and as such it has to be proportionate, so the garda can find himself in bother for using them. If you think that’s daft, don’t despair, you’re not alone.

There was a story in the Limerick Leader about a case in the district court where drink driving charges brought against a motorist, who was more than four times over the legal limit, were dismissed after a judge ruled the use of handcuffs by gardai was unacceptable.

The driver was prosecuted in relation to an incident in Limerick at around 2.15am and a garda told Limerick District Court that he observed a vehicle being driven in a car park and “rolling back” after the driver, a Polish national, attempted to park in a space.

He placed handcuffs on the defendant following his arrest and the prisoner was taken to Henry Street garda station where he later found to be four times over the legal limit of 50mg.

Being questioned about his decision to use handcuffs, the garda said that he had carried out a “quick risk assessment” before doing so. The defendant was highly intoxicated, I was unaware of his strengths and weaknesses,” he said. ”I had never met him before, he might have had a propensity for violence, I took precautions,” he added.

When the solicitor put it to the witness that the criteria outlined “could have applied to everyone”, the garda accepted he would not have handcuffed a grandmother. The garda agreed he was accompanied by a colleague on the night and that the driver was not aggressive and the solicitor submitted the use of handcuffs had been unnecessary and unlawful and there was “absolutely no reason to make a decision to place cuffs” on his client on the night.

Dismissing the case, Judge John King said it appeared from the garda’s evidence that he would decide to place handcuffs on healthy males “as a matter of routine” and not on a case-by-case basis.

“It appears he has decided if you are a male and healthy, then I am going to apply cuffs,” he said. On that basis, the judge said he was satisfied the arrest was unlawful and dismissed the charge.

It’s very easy for someone sitting in the safety of a courthouse to reach a determination that placing handcuffs on a prisoner is unnecessary. It’s a different kettle of fish when arresting a person in a public car park in the early hours of the morning.

An Garda Siochana is an unarmed organisation. The protection afforded to gardai today is pretty much the same as it was for me back in 1980, a soft cap, a baton and a pair of handcuffs. The batons we had were short timber sticks made of hickory but at least the modern version is extendable and made of stronger material. But they are still the basic tools.

I could count on one hand the number of times I used handcuffs back in the day. I rarely carried them with me because they were attached to your belt and were uncomfortable when sitting in a car. But times were different then.

Society has changed since those uncomplicated times and there is more violence on the streets today. There is a lot less respect for police officers too and they are faced with more aggression.  Guns and knives are commonly used, and it’s difficult to determine how someone is going to behave when under the influence of narcotics.

Many years ago, myself and a colleague responded to a call regarding a disturbance on McCurtain Street. When we got there, we found two guys fighting. We had a job separating them and we decided to arrest both.

One of them calmed down but the other guy was hyped up and aggressive, so we handcuffed him and placed him behind the front passenger seat. My colleague sat in the middle while the calm guy sat behind me. As I was driving down the Lower Road, he suddenly lurched forward and punched me into the side of the head and started kicking the back of the seat.

I stopped the car and struggled to get the handcuffs on him. I decided there and then that in future, any person in custody in a car that I was driving, would be placed in handcuffs.

Once a person has been placed in custody, the personal safety of that prisoner becomes the responsibility of the arresting member. He has no idea how the prisoner will react to being detained but he must ensure that he doesn’t cause injury to himself or others. He must also ensure the prisoner doesn’t abscond because that could let the garda open to disciplinary proceedings or worse.

So, while police officers affecting arrests can’t use their handcuffs, politicians standing in a field for a photo opportunity, are required to wear hard hats, eye protectors and high viz vests before turning a sod.

Seems to me, the threat of being mauled by hungry worms is a greater concern for our legislators.

Back in May 1980, myself and Pat Lehane travelled by mini bus to Dublin and we were dropped off outside Blackrock Garda Station. We had just completed our six months training in the Garda Training Centre in Templemore, and this was our first posting in the real world.

I’m from Cobh and Pat is from Macroom so we hardly qualified as city slickers. As far as we were concerned, we may as well have landed in the Bronx. The comfort blanket of Templemore was behind us now and this was the real thing.

Templemore has a fancy title now. It’s called Garda Siochana College and it bestows degrees in policing studies on students, but back then, we were just ordinary recruits. We got six months training, a feed of abuse and then we were thrown out to make our own way in the world.

Our first task after reporting in, was to find somewhere to stay. Fortunately for us, another Cork guy who was stationed in nearby Cabinteely, came to meet us off the bus. He had left Templemore two months previously and he gave us a hand to find accommodation. Only for him we could well have ended up sleeping in a bus shelter. That Good Samaritan was Charlie Barry, the recently retired Superintendent in Togher.

Pat and myself stayed in the same digs for the first couple of weeks and it wasn’t a great experience. One morning I woke up to find a chunk of the ceiling lying next to my pillow and I soon learned that it wasn’t unusual for bits to fall onto the bed during the night.

The first morning I went for breakfast, the landlady met me in the kitchen. She had a sliced pan under her arm and she asked me if I wanted toast. When I told her I did, she asked me if I wanted one slice or two. I was beginning to think that our relationship was doomed from the outset. I was right, and it wasn’t long before I was on the move.

I abandoned Pat, which he still hasn’t forgotten, and found another place to stay in Carysfort Avenue. This was close to the garda station and it turned out to be my home for the next three years. The house was run by a couple in their seventies and I suspect that they were taking in lodgers for the company more than the money. They were letting out three rooms on the first floor with two people to each room.

It was an old three storey house with a basement, where the kitchen and dining room were. You had to go through one bedroom to get to the other two and with some of us on shift work, there was always a bit of noise with all the coming and going.

There was a student there who hated noise and I shared a room with him. He had such sensitive hearing that he used to hide his tiny folding travel clock underneath his bed and cover it with some clothing so he couldn’t hear it ticking. My clock was a bit bigger than his and sometimes when I came home, I would have to search for it. He often buried it because it kept him awake.

Not long after I arrived, one of the other guys left, so Pat moved in. The following year, we were joined by Pats brother, John who was stationed in Irishtown.

Looking back on it, the conditions were fairly primitive, but it was nearly 40 years ago, and we didn’t know any better.

The hallway leading to the bathroom was covered with lino and there was a skylight with a broken piece of glass that often let in a bit of snow in the winter time. It could be cold there too because we didn’t have any heating.

We shared that one bathroom between six of us and there was one guy who was very fond of grooming himself. Because he was there the longest, he thought the hot water was for his personal use. There was a limited supply and if we didn’t get to the bathroom before him, we’d have to make do with cold water. This happened regularly.

There was a very large antique mirror in my bedroom, and he loved to use that when he was pruning himself and it didn’t bother him that he might be disturbing anyone else. I was often tempted to break it.

As far as I can remember it was costing us about sixteen pounds a week for breakfast, lunch and dinner and the food was good. When we were on nights, the landlady would make us a sandwich to take to work. We were completely spoiled, and she really looked after us.

Molly Trait was her name and she was a tough, capable woman and she provided a home from home for many characters over the years. She was married to Jack, a big man who was very set in his ways. He had worked as a labourer for most of his life and once he developed an opinion on something, that was that. There was no changing him.

They were living in Dublin for donkey’s years, but they were originally from Kilkenny and were really country people at heart. They were very traditional and everything came to a halt when the Angelus came on the TV at six o’clock. Both were a little hard of hearing and that often led to some confusion too, but it was a nice place to live.

A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then and some of the characters are no longer with us. Hard to believe it’s over 40 years since we got off that bus.