Trevor Laffan

• 

Justine McCarthy told a disturbing story in the Sunday Time recently that would make you wonder about how some people are reared.

In the last week of January, a woman waited in her local post office to buy stamps for thank you letters she had written to the priest and the undertaker who had conducted her husband’s funeral the previous Saturday. On noticing that a customer queuing, too closely, behind her had his face uncovered, she said to him: “I think you’ve forgotten to put on your mask.”

His belligerence was instant. “What? I can’t hear what you’re saying with that thing on your face,” he said, aggressively whipping the hood of his sweatshirt from his head. “Is it the ‘deadly virus’ you’re talking about?”

“My husband died with Covid-19 last week,” the woman said.

“I’m sure he did, you f***ing curly-haired bitch,” he replied.

The woman crumpled. For a moment, she struggled to compose herself. The postmaster invited her into his office. Another man offered to buy her a cup of coffee. She declined, saying again and again: “I can’t believe somebody could be so cruel.” Then, holding on to the counter for support, she left the post office, her face mask drenched with tears.

That poor woman isn’t the only one who finds it difficult to believe that someone could be so cruel. Whatever is going on in his life doesn’t excuse that behaviour and nothing can be said to justify it. Some of that is down to the way he was brought up, but I also think that some people are just badly wired.

You can get a faulty computer, a faulty toaster and sometimes you can even get a car that continually develops faults with no explanation other than it’s just one of those that came off the conveyer belt the wrong way. There are faulty humans too.

Comments from a few protesters at the recent Anti-Lockdown gathering in Cork made it clear that the mindset of some of these people are out of kilter. Their opinions might make complete sense to them in their own head space but the vast majority of us see the nonsense for what it is. Good luck trying to have a sensible conversation with someone who genuinely believes that babies are being killed for a serum to keep RTE presenters looking young.

While they might raise their voices from time to time, wave placards and chant ‘Fake news’ like Trump supporters, they are generally harmless. Unlike the guy in Justine McCarthy’s piece who is in a different league altogether and I can’t help wondering what he was like as a child.

W.C. Fields, the comedian wasn’t a big fan of children. According to him, ‘Children should neither be seen nor heard from – ever again.’ He also said, ’Anyone who hates children and animals can’t be all bad.’ That’s a bit harsh but I suspect there are parents might agree with him at times, especially during this pandemic with everyone cooped up together.

Parenting is tough enough at the best of times and no matter how good your kids are, they will get on your nerves occasionally. They will cause you some stress too and the bad news is, that it never stops. You begin worrying about them the day they’re born and that continues forever. It doesn’t end when they leave home either because as soon as grandchildren arrive, the next generation of worry begins.

Not every child gets a good start in life. They don’t always get the proper care or the lucky breaks. Many of them are born into difficult circumstance where the prospects of staying on the straight and narrow are slim. Some are groomed at a young age for a life of crime and while that’s tough and unfair, and shouldn’t happen, it’s nothing new either.

Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist in the 1830’s, about a boy who ran away to London where he came across a character called Fagin, a career criminal, who trained him to pick pockets and soon Oliver was out on the streets working for him as a member of a gang and into a life of crime. Maybe Dickins was inspired by what was going on around him at the time.

You might also think that those days are long gone and something like that could never happen in today’s world, but you would be wrong. Even though Oliver Twist was written nearly two hundred years ago, it is still relevant today. Children are being used by criminals and have been for some time.

Back in the nineties, a well-known criminal family on Cork’s northside was using children as young as ten and eleven as drug runners. A car would pull up at a certain spot and a child would deliver the drugs to the car and return home with the money. That was thirty years ago, and it wasn’t only going on in Cork.

There was a study carried out in the University of Limerick which looked at how adults use children in the world of crime. They found that children as young as eight were being groomed by their parents and about 1,000 children across the state were estimated to be engaged with, or at risk of engaging with, a criminal network.

Raising children isn’t easy. There are lots of pitfalls and no guarantees of a good outcome no matter how much effort you put into it. There is a bit of luck involved too so put your hand behind you and give yourself a pat on the back for a job well done if yours have turned out OK. Unless they grew up to be the guy who abused the lady in the post office. In that case, I’m sorry for your trouble.

• 

I have no interest in banking. My mother often said I was useless with money and I didn’t know how to mind it. She was right and I’ve always thought it’s important to recognise your limitations so with that in mind, I absolved myself of all financial responsibility.

My wife assumed control of our finances the day we got married. Just as well she did too because we would be a lot worse off today only for her.

If I need money for anything, I just make an application to her and if she approves it, a lodgement is made in my wallet. She charges me interest at 65%, which she says is perfectly normal, so that’s fair enough. She must know what she’s talking about because she even understands online banking and it’s a good job too because physical banks are becoming harder to find.

They keep closing and moving around. That doesn’t bother me because the only time I present myself at a bank is when my signature is required for something, but it’s a different story for those who aren’t handy with Internet banking and I would imagine that’s a sizeable group.

There were three banks in Cobh once upon a time, A.I.B, Bank of Ireland and PTSB. We have been dealing with the PTSB since we got married but now it’s in a virtual way because they closed their doors in Cobh in 2012 and moved to Midleton. But as my financial controller is useful with her laptop, it isn’t a big issue for us.

The Cobh branch of the Bank of Ireland is also about to close its doors and that’s not going down too well with some of the locals who are questioning the decision. BOI says the branches closing are predominately self-service locations that do not offer a counter service. Cork will lose nine branches altogether, one more than Dublin and the most of any county in Ireland.

During the pandemic, Cobh has been quiet like all other towns but during a normal summer this place would be heaving with tourists. The cruise liners alone would be filling the town with visitors in addition to an existing population of over 12,000. With only the Allied Irish Bank left, it remains to be seen how they will cope when normal life resumes.

The AIB, formerly the Munster and Leinster for those with good memories, has been a part of Cobh for as long as I can remember, and they haven’t always had an easy time of it.

In August 1972, two men, one armed with an automatic pistol and the other with a flick knife, held up the Cobh branch of the Allied Irish Bank, and got away with about £7,000 in cash and some unsigned traveller’s cheques.

Val Dorgan, writing for the then Cork Examiner, told how the bank staff and one customer suddenly found themselves confronted by an aggressive gunman and his companion who produced a knife with a five-inch blade. The manager and staff were locked in the strongroom by the gunman who explained to them in a northern accent that it was for a good cause. 

Some of the staff were hysterical and feared they might suffocate and because of their pleading the robbers closed the grille door of the strongroom but left the main door open. The manager opened that door by unscrewing a panel of the lock and immediately raised the alarm, but by then, the robbers had a twenty-minute head start.

A massive manhunt went on over the following few days with gardai working alongside armed soldiers and searches were carried out all over the island. Matters came to a head in O’Keeffe’s Wood on the outskirts of the town, when two men sought by the gardai eventually broke cover when a search dog got close to them and they were taken into custody.

A few years later in 1979, the AIB became a target again. Margaret Fennelly, the wife of the then manager, Billy Fennelly, was kidnapped from her home in Rushbrooke, just outside the town of Cobh. She was at the oven, doing some baking, and when she turned around, she found a man standing there, pointing a gun at her. 

The gunman told her he was taking her as a hostage in exchange for £60,000. He tied her up, wrapped her in a duvet and placed her in the boot of his car. Her husband Billy was contacted by the kidnappers who demanded £60,000 for her release. The caller said she would be killed if the gardai were alerted.

Fennelly ignored that warning and immediately raised the alarm. Gardai mounted a massive operation with all available detectives in Cork city and county, backed by uniformed gardai, called into action. Acting on instructions from the kidnappers, the manager collected the money and drove to a hotel in Mitchelstown and waited there for further instructions.

At the same time, two gardai were on patrol in Cahir when they spotted a Mark 4 Cortina parked on a side road in a secluded area. It looked out of place, so they decided to investigate further. As they approached the car, they heard a muffled sound coming from the boot.

They forced it open and discovered Margaret Fennelly tied up in a duvet and covered by blankets. She was in a shocked state but apart from that she was safe and well. The whole ordeal lasted a mere five hours from start to finish and nobody has ever been brought to justice for the crime.

Thankfully, stories like this are rare now and as we move closer to a cashless society, physical banks are becoming more irrelevant which is making life difficult for robbers. Simply trying to find one is hard enough for them.

• 

“I could sleep for a week” is an expression we’ve all used from time to time. Usually after a long period of activity when we’ve used up all our reserves and we’re on the verge of keeling over, but I suspect very few have actually tried it.

Peter Powers, a hypnotist from the UK did though, and he holds a record for the longest hypnotic sleep that lasted eight days. It doesn’t say whether he was any the worse for wear after his experience, but I imagine he was hungry.

When I was a teenager, I’d have given Peter a run for his money but these days I don’t need much shut eye. Whatever about the after-effects of a prolonged snooze, the lack of sleep can definitely cause problems and sleep deprivation has been used as a form of torture for centuries.

Believe it or not, our Scottish cousins spent a lot of time chasing witches back in the 16th century. They participated in several nationwide witch hunts at the height of a sorcery and witch hysteria period. Women who allegedly practised witchcraft were captured and sent for trial, and once they were convicted, they were burned at the stake.

To secure a conviction though, a confession was required and to get that, their captors resorted to torture. They deprived the women of sleep for days until they eventually began to hallucinate and what they said and did during these hallucinations was used in their “confession.” That led to the term ‘waking the witch’.

These days, sleep deprivation is still a problem for many, especially those suffering from sleep disorders. Insomnia is a familiar one but there are a couple of others less well known. Did you know for instance that there is such a thing as restless legs syndrome?

It’s a condition that causes an uncontrollable urge to move your legs, usually because of an uncomfortable sensation and it typically happens in the evening or the night-time hours when you’re sitting or lying down. Moving the legs eases the unpleasant feeling temporarily but it can continue throughout the night.

Sleep apnoea is another problem. This is a condition where the walls of the throat relax and narrow during sleep and that interrupts normal breathing. It can lead to regular interrupted sleep and can have a big impact on your quality of life. Narcolepsy is another one and that causes excessive daytime sleepiness because the brain can’t regulate a normal sleep pattern. Any one of these would be enough to drive you to distraction but some people can have a combination of issues.

We all require sleep to deal with the stresses and strains of modern day living and I read somewhere that on average, we need around eight hours a night at least. I’m not part of that cohort though, because I reckon, I can survive easily on five or six hours and that includes getting up at least once or twice during the night to visit the hedge at the bottom of the garden, in a manner of speaking.

I don’t think I’ve had an unbroken nights’ sleep since my mother tucked me into the cot, but it doesn’t bother me either because I don’t need it. Lack of sleep isn’t as much of an issue for most of us retirees because we can stay in bed longer to make up for it or just go for a doze in the recliner in the afternoon when the urge takes us, but it is a problem for anyone required to be productive.

Life is funny because during my working days we had one shift that started at 6am and that meant getting up around 5.15am which was always a struggle, especially if I was late getting to bed in the first place. Now that I’m retired, I regularly wake at that hour full of the joys of spring but with nowhere to go.

Those unfortunate enough to be already suffering from sleep disorders now find themselves in a whole new world of pain since the arrival of Covid-19. Sleep deprivation is associated with the pandemic which is understandable. Trying to keep ourselves safe while coping with lockdowns, school closures, home-schooling, quarantines, and working-from-home is guaranteed to play havoc with sleep patterns.

Something else that upsets our sleep apparently, is turning the clocks back an hour to mark the end of daylight saving, but there might be some good news on that front. The European Parliament has voted to end the practice of the clocks jumping forward and backwards so EU member countries that wish to remain permanently on winter-time can change their clocks for the final time on the last Sunday of October 2021.

That’s good news because according to Realsimple.com, these time changes at the end of daylight saving affect your sleep schedule, and cause depression for some. A 2016 Danish study which examined 185,419 diagnoses of depression between 1995 and 2012, found an eight percent rise in depression in the days following the time change in the autumn, especially for people with a tendency towards depression.

Moving the clock back also increases your odds of having a stroke. According to one Finnish study, the national incidence of stroke rises by about eight percent over the two days following daylight saving time transitions. As to why that happens, it all comes down to messing with our circadian sleep rhythms (body-clock to you and me.)

You’re also more likely to get mugged. Apparently getting just a bit more sleep inspires people to commit crimes. According to a 2017 study by scientists at the University of Pennsylvania who specialize in criminology, psychiatry, and psychology, the assault rate spikes just after the clocks fall back.

Don’t know about you, but I need a lie down after all that.

• 

.We complain from time to time that prisoners have it easy. We have this idea that prisons are very much like hotels and the inmates aren’t suffering enough but it isn’t all fun and games being locked up either. During my thirty-five years as a member of An Garda Siochana, I had to visit our prisons from time to time and on those occasions, I got to see what life was like for some of those who ended up behind bars.

During the prison officers strike in 1988, the gardai were sent in to keep the prisons functioning for the duration of the dispute and I got to see the daily routine and to observe the regime prisoners had to comply with, so I do have some insight into what prison is like for inmates.

The creature comforts, such as they are, don’t compensate for the loss of liberty. Confinement is the toughest part of any sentence and we’re all getting a small taste of that now thanks to Covid-19. Just imagine how you would feel if we were told tomorrow that we were going to remain in Level 5 for another few years. It wouldn’t go down well. The confinement imposed upon us by these restrictions is a bit like being in a low security prison with no privileges apart from being allowed out for brief periods of exercise.

In the beginning, we didn’t mind so much because it was a novelty but what was supposed to be a short sentence to flatten the curve hasn’t worked out like that and many are struggling. We’re a year down the line and we miss our grandchildren, family, and friends. Some of those living alone don’t see anyone for days at a time and rely on a visit from the postman to see a friendly face. We’re doing our best, but it isn’t easy.

When I hear politicians speculating about the end of the Covid-19 restrictions it reminds me of my childhood when we used to go for a spin in the car. At the end of the day, when we got fed up, we would be impatient to get home to play with our toys and we’d ask a thousand times from the back seat, “How far more dad?” and the answer was always the same. “Nearly there now, just around the next corner.”

Others are in the driving seat now telling us to hang on, pretending we’re nearly there, but there’s nothing around the next corner, only more of the same. The news on Covid-19 is coming from all directions but not always from the same hymn sheet. The messages are mixed so if you are confused, don’t despair, you’re not alone. There are many of us in the same boat, including possibly some of those tasked with sailing it.

There was confusion over getting the children back to school, confusion regarding the sourcing of the vaccine and confusion regarding travellers still flying into the country by the thousand. The delivery of the vaccine to the GP’s isn’t straight forward either.

I heard a character on the radio saying he only listens to Morning Ireland on Fridays to get the gist of what happened during the week and he watches the news on TV once a week and that’s his fill. I’m beginning to think he’s onto something because it’s all doom and gloom. Some of it is our own doing though.

The Christmas freedom was a disaster and we’ve been paying the price for that. The Government is being blamed but it was us who demanded the right to meet our friends and relatives and it was us who insisted on the right to be able to go out for a meal. We wanted a normal festive season but, in all honesty, we were in no position to look for it.

Moving to another lockdown in the new year was a consequence of that and it was hard to take but news that a vaccine was on the way picked us up again. There was a bit of light at the end of an extremely long tunnel, but that bulb burst when we heard there was going to be a supply issue with the vaccine.  

Our resolve is weakening because we’re feeling frustrated and it doesn’t help when we see hundreds of passengers returning through Dublin Airport after their winter sun holiday. Those filmed by RTE coming from Lanzarote weren’t apologetic about taking their break. They were determined to carry on as normal regardless of the consequences.

Others are more rebellious as evidenced by the scenes we witnessed recently on Grafton Street in Dublin when anti-lockdown protesters caused violent clashes with the gardai. Up to 2,000 protesters gathered at St Stephen’s Green and made their way to Grafton Street where gardai later baton charged the crowd after fireworks and other missiles were thrown at them.

That kind of behaviour is not acceptable but thankfully, while the vast majority of us might be struggling, we’re still prepared to follow the rules, but the confusion isn’t helping. It was easier last March when we had a complete lockdown with no grey areas. We were told to stay at home until we got the all-clear and that’s what we did. Now though, we have five different levels, including half levels, and it’s constantly changing which leaves us conflicted.

I know it’s complicated and the pandemic is an evolving situation, but we’re battle weary. With rumours of further protests coming down the line, we need a proper plan. Something positive as a reward for how well we’ve done.

Prisoners get a release date, and they can even shorten their sentence with time off for good behaviour. It would be nice if we could avail of that too.

• 

Sean Connery sadly passed away last October at 90 years of age. One of the most famous actors of our time, he is probably best known for playing the part of the British Secret Service agent, James Bond, 007. His voice alone was enough to identify him.

I was watching a documentary on TV shortly after his death, about his life and times. It featured clips of various interviews he gave during his career and he mentioned several times that he had difficulty relating events to the correct dates. For instance, he couldn’t remember the year he started playing Bond or how long it took to make the films or how many years had passed between each film.

He said he couldn’t work it out because he had difficulty calculating time. When he was describing how he had played one particular role in a certain year, the interviewer corrected him and pointed out that he had made that film many years earlier. Connery accepted that the interviewer was probably right because he could never remember that kind of detail.

It wasn’t that his memory was bad, he was just unable to put events into chronological order. I don’t know if there is a specific name for this problem or if it is even recognised as a problem, but I knew straight away what he was talking about because I suffer from the same thing. Not many people can claim to have something in common with James Bond though, so it’s not all bad.

I should have taken my father’s advice and kept a diary. When I was heading to Dublin as a young garda in 1980, he advised me to keep one, but I didn’t listen of course, and it would be very useful to me now.

I can remember many things from the past, but I struggle to put them into the correct datal sequence. I can describe something that happened to me in my early life but when I try to put a date on when it happened, I can be out by years.

My wife has amazing recall and can conjure up details about holidays with the kids over thirty years ago, including the apartments we stayed in, the beaches, and pubs and restaurants we visited. I can barely remember the countries we were in and I have no idea when we went there.

She can rattle off every detail of our children’s lives while I struggle to remember their names. My mind is like an Instagram account. Memories linger for a short while and then they leave to make room for something else. I’ll give you an example.

I got a touch of the flu some time ago and I lost my sense of taste and smell. I have no idea why I remember the month, but it was October, and I was sick for a week. It was pre-Covid-19 and when the virus eventually arrived on our shores, I was convinced I had already had it. I told anyone who would listen that I had the virus a few months before it made its official appearance here in March 2020.

I was very persuasive and even had myself convinced. I wrote a piece about my loss of taste and smell in The Echo at the time. Those symptoms eventually became one of the stand-out signs of Covid-19 and that reinforced my belief that I had the virus before our first lockdown.

I should have known better than to trust myself because as usual, my timeline was slightly skewed. It was getting the better of me, so I went searching through my filing system for a copy of the article, and I was surprised to see that it was published January 2017. That meant I got the flu in October 2016 and not 2019 as I had been telling everyone. I was out by three years.

Here’s another example. I can remember being at my grandmother’s funeral, but I could never remember when it took place. I had always thought it was in the seventies, but given my weakness for dates, I knew I could be wrong. Writing this stirred my curiosity so I contacted a relative who told me that she actually died in 1982. So not only was I out by a few years but I had the wrong decade.

That can be very frustrating, so, I’ve decided to do something about it. I’ve been looking at some memory organising exercises, and the first suggestion to help you remember something, is to make it meaningful.

Here is an example. Packing a parachute by itself can be boring, however, the excitement of jumping out of a plane gives a whole new meaning to this process. Focusing on the “Big Picture” can help provide meaning to the learning process and stimulate us to remember.

That’s fair enough I suppose, and it made sense to me because the main reason my grandmother’s funeral stood out in my mind at all is because during the service in the graveyard, an older man stepped forward and gave an oration and I hadn’t seen that before.

They also say that people remember 90 percent of what they do, 75 percent of what they see and 20 percent of what they hear because action is a proven memory enhancer. So, they suggest the next step is to move your hands, pace back and forth and use gestures because if your body is actively involved, it will help you to remember.

That sounds reasonable too and I’m going to give it a go. So, if I meet you while I’m out walking and I’m flapping my arms around the place don’t be alarmed. I’m either trying to remember your name or I’m just folding my imaginary parachute.

• 

I was sitting in my car recently outside the Mater Hospital in Cork waiting for my wife. It was a dirty evening, pouring with rain. As I sat there, I noticed a nurse in the foyer pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair towards the entrance of the hospital where I presumed, she was going to be collected. The woman was wearing a dressing gown which wasn’t ideal for the conditions even if it was waterproof.

A car pulled up beside me and a lady got out and ran to the front door where she was discussing tactics with the others. I could see their dilemma, so I got my umbrella out of the boot and offered to cover the lady in the wheelchair while she got to the car. She thought I was giving it to her, so she took it off me, and stuck me in the eye in the process and I was left standing in the rain.

She got sorted though and she was very grateful. With my good deed done for the day, I returned to the car, blind in one eye and soaked to the skin but the lady was dry and on her way home, so it ended well.

As I sat there, it crossed my mind that with all the technology we have at our disposal in this modern world, there is still an important role for the humble brolly. The Internet can’t protect you from the rain, and there’s no vaccine that will keep you dry so, for now, we rely on the umbrella. That got me wondering about its origin. Where did it come from?

Well, it’s been with us for a while, over 3000 years in fact. The first umbrellas, or parasols, were used by the Egyptians as protection from the sun. They put some leaves together on a stick and, hey presto, they had a parasol. If you look up the meaning of parasol you will discover it’s a light umbrella, designed to give shade from the sun.

There is another definition that describes a parasol as a widely distributed large mushroom with a broad scaly greyish-brown cap and a tall slender stalk. I’m not sure which word came first but I reckon it’s unlikely they had mushrooms in the dry climate of Egypt but maybe they did.

Anyway, the word “umbrella” comes from the Latin word “umbra,” meaning shade or shadow, so, it would seem that the original idea was to provide protection from the heat of the sun, and it was the Chinese who first used the parasol as a way of keeping dry. They waxed the paper covering to make it waterproof. That caught on and the umbrella soon became popular in rainy northern Europe, but it was considered suitable for women only.

I suspect the original designers of the umbrella never imagined that it would have other uses too. John Steed, played by Patrick Macnee of The Avengers, never went anywhere without his and regularly used it as a weapon.  

Steed operated in the sixties alongside his sidekick Emma Peel played by Diana Rigg and those of a certain vintage will remember his three-piece suit, bowler hat and the ever-present umbrella, his favourite weapon. The handle concealed a sword, and other umbrellas at his disposal contained a variety of accessories.

One had a tape recorder, another had a tip that could emit knock out gas, another one had a camera hidden under the handle for covert photography, and he even had one that contained measures of whisky. He also rang doorbells with the tips instead of using his finger. I’m not sure how he knew which one he was going to need at any given time, but he always managed to have the right one for the occasion.

That seemed far-fetched back then, but it wasn’t long before umbrellas were used as weapons by eastern Europeans. In 1978, Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov was killed by poison dart filled with ricin that was fired from an umbrella on Waterloo Bridge in London.

Markov, a communist defector working for the BBC World Service, left his office at Bush House in the UK capital on September 11 and walked across the bridge to take the train home. As he waited at a bus-stop, he felt a sharp jab in his thigh and saw a man picking up an umbrella.

He developed a high temperature and four days later, he was dead. A post-mortem examination established that he had been killed by a tiny pellet containing a small dose of the poison that was only detected because the pellet carrying the poison failed to dissolve as it was supposed to.

Umbrellas can also be destructive in the domestic setting. Walking around the house with a fully extended golf umbrella is guaranteed to end badly so it is not recommended. Having said that, it is actively encouraged on one day every year. March 13^th is ‘Open an Umbrella Indoors Day’. The organisers say that while opening an umbrella indoors is supposed to be bad luck, they want to know if there is any truth behind this superstition.

‘Open An Umbrella Indoors Day’ was invented in 2003 by Thomas Knibb who hoped to defy the superstition by encouraging people to open their umbrellas indoors and then observe the consequences.

If you want to take part, just follow these four simple steps: Find an umbrella and check that you are indoors. Position yourself clear of breakable objects and people who value their eyesight. Take a deep breath, grasp the umbrella handle firmly with one hand and open the umbrella with the other. Then note any bad luck that occurs after.

Best of luck with that but my umbrella will be staying in the boot for now.

• 

If you still don’t know how real or how scary Covid-19 is, then you should listen back to Brendan O’Connor’s interview with Senator Marie-Louise O’Donnell about her battle with the virus. She said it was petrifying and when it had sucked all the energy out of her, she was almost prepared to give up and drift away because it would have been easier.

There’s no doubt about it, the Corona virus is nasty. It makes us sick, sometimes with devastating consequences, it screws the economy and basically turns our world upside down. Nobody is immune from the fallout.

It’s devious in the way it divides communities and sets us against one another. Everyone has faced criticism during the pandemic, the Government, public health advisors, the pubs, the restaurants, the congregating youngsters, sports fans, holiday makers, and visitors. The teachers and the special needs assistants got it in the neck too.  

Larissa Nolan wrote a piece in The Times UK recently about the continued closure of schools for children with special educational needs. She was very unhappy with the teacher’s unions who, she said, were making unreasonable demands to the detriment of the children.

According to Nolan, education minister Norma Foley’s plan to reopen schools just for these children — who comprise just 4 per cent of the entire school population — was clear-headed, reasonable and both morally and legally right.

She claimed it was a decent compromise by an education minister and a taoiseach who are both former teachers themselves. Surely nobody could oppose the opening of special schools, which we now knew to be an essential service? But the teachers’ unions could, and she said they rank the needs and interests of their members higher than those of special-needs children. The unions’ focus is furthering their own agenda.

Strong stuff but that’s her opinion and she’s entitled to it. Looking at the other side of the coin though, the INTO general secretary John Boyle, said the fundamental problem was conflicting health messaging. That had left many school staff totally unconvinced that the school environment was safe under current conditions. He said the education department webinar, which attracted over 16,000 participants, clearly demonstrated the level of fear and anxiety among school staff.

Their fear seemed reasonable to me because there is no shortage of it in this current climate. As someone who is retired, it’s easy for me to abide by the public health advice. I stay at home and I keep to myself, so I don’t really have too much to worry about but that’s not the case for everyone.

Life is much more complicated for the essential workers. They operate at the coal face every day so they are entitled to every possible support to ensure their environment is as safe as it can be. That’s not easy during a pandemic, I know. Especially when there is such a lot of uncertainty and so much we still don’t understand about the Coronavirus.

We’re not sure about the long term affects for those who have had it because it hasn’t been around long enough yet. We don’t know if we will ever be completely rid of it or if there will always be some variant lurking in the shadows? With so many unknowns, I’m slow to criticise those reluctant to go to work in circumstances that will bring them into close contact with others because all along, the advice has been to keep our distance.

That has been drilled into us since last March. The virus doesn’t travel, people do which is why we were told to stay away from others, so I think it’s perfectly understandable that some are concerned about returning to the workplace but then, I have a vested interest in this argument.

My wife, Gaye, is a special needs assistant and she would prefer to be in school, but safety is a priority for her. She’s not getting any younger and the work is very demanding but while she finds it tough at times, she loves her job. She’s normally up early every morning, looking forward to spending the day with the children and watching them progress.

I’m told by people she works with that she is very capable and that doesn’t surprise me because she doesn’t do anything by halves. She always gives 100%. Right now, she misses the children she is assigned to and takes no pleasure from being out of school. She wants to be back with them, but she is extremely nervous.

Ms. Nolan said every teacher she knows would go back into class for kids who need them, even if everyone had to wear hazmat suits. It’s a vocation she said. I absolutely agree with her that it is a vocation but none of the reassurances from the government at the time, encouraged my wife or her colleagues to return to the classroom.

Ms. Nolan accepts that special needs assistants in particular, act in loco parentis and sincerely care for the welfare and progress of their students. She must also be aware that this often includes toileting, peg feeding, cleaning and comforting these kids and you can’t do that without being up close and personal. Social distancing in those circumstances is not possible.

Ms. Nolan also believes that plenty of people feel teachers would change their tune if they were put on the Covid payment instead of getting their full salaries. Personally speaking, I think that’s unfair but it’s an example of the division this virus is creating within our community.

Thankfully, a plan is in place for a gradual reopening of the schools and nobody is happier to hear that than the teachers and SNA’s. It would be nice to think that this will bring an end to the blame game, but I have my doubts.

• 

I wrote a piece in the Echo some time ago about driving a truck to the Chernobyl affected areas of Belarus and Western Russia. It generated quite a bit of feedback and some wanted to know more about those journeys and others asked if I had any more anecdotes from that time. So here goes.

For over fifteen years, I visited Belarus regularly. There were many charities doing their bit for the children in that part of the world back then and the Irish weren’t found wanting. A huge amount of humanitarian aid was collected and delivered by fleets of trucks and ambulances to where it was needed most.

The convoys usually left in the spring and those 3000-mile trips across Europe were tough. I think the largest one I was on consisted of twenty articulated trucks and the same number of ambulances. Every vehicle had at least two people on board, so it was a logistical nightmare.

The trucks contained food, clothing, hospital equipment, supplies for building projects and toys etc. and the ambulances were also used to transport aid. When all the deliveries were completed, the ambulances were donated to various hospitals and the drivers flew home. That took two weeks, but truck drivers had to drive back home again so they took a bit longer.

The vehicle was our home for the duration. Conditions were rough and you did the best with the limited space, but it was always cramped and almost certainly cold. On a good day in Belarus, you might get a bed in an orphanage or a space on the floor in a day care centre. On a really good day, you might get a shower and even a cold one was a blessing. Other than that, we relied on baby wipes to remove the grime.

Humour provided necessary relief. CB radios were fitted to every vehicle and they were used to relay instructions and directions to everyone while we were on the move, but they also provided entertainment. There was a lot of slagging over the airwaves and nobody was immune.

One guy in particular orchestrated most of it. Pat Mohally is a Cork man through and through and a staunch ‘Barrs supporter. He gave a huge amount of his spare time to collecting the aid, delivering it to the warehouse, sorting it and loading the trucks. He is a very genuine character although I would never tell him that.

He remains to this day, the undisputed king of ball-hopping. Every waking moment was spent devising new schemes and looking for fresh victims. He loved winding people up and he was even prepared to sacrifice himself for the cause.

On one convoy, Pat got his wife to leak a story that he had packed some ladies’ tights to protect him from the cold. We were delighted to hear that Pat wore ladies clothing and we thought we finally had something on him. We spread the word but said nothing to him. There were plenty of Pretty Polly jokes coming over the airwaves and he played along, pretending to be completely in the dark. He kept it up for a week and didn’t care that he was the butt of the joke because he knew that in the end the last laugh would be on us as soon as we discovered he set it up himself.

We used a regular truck stop for overnight stays in Germany. On the Autobahn, there were many signs for Ausfahrt and Pat would tell everyone that there was a concert in Ausfahrt that night. Tickets were €10 and anyone interested would be collected at 7pm and taken to the venue.

Naturally, there was no concert. Ausfahrt is the German word for ‘exit’ so you would expect to see that on the motorway. At 7pm though, there would always be a few people waiting for the non-existent bus and that made his day. The money he collected was never returned either but donated to charity.

One time we used the Channel Tunnel to get to France. It’s a 50km version of the Jack Lynch Tunnel except that you drive onto a shuttle train and they carry you over. Pat told everyone to get their cameras out mid-way across to capture them feeding the fish. One guy did and Pat christened him Jaques Cousteau.

We always had delays at the Belarussian border while clearing customs and there was no mobile phone coverage, but Pat would pass the time by making pretend phone calls. He would walk around having imaginary conversations while holding something in the air that was connected to his mobile. He told everyone it was a special border booster, but it was just his charger.

One guy had previously arranged an interview at the border with his local radio station back home unaware that he would have no phone coverage there. When he saw Pat on the phone, he ran the length of twenty trucks to borrow it. As soon as Pat saw him closing in, he started shaking the charger and complaining that he was losing signal. Pat kept it up until the poor man was exhausted.

When we passed an area with a lot of windmills or wind turbines, Pat announced that they were the town coolers because it gets very hot there in the summer.

Driving through the UK one time he spotted a helicopter overhead presumably doing a traffic report for a local radio station, but Pat saw an opportunity for some mischief. He announced over the radio that he had received a call from home to say that Sky News were filming the convoy. He told everyone to open the windows and wave up at the helicopter. Many did of course.

Even now, I watch myself when he’s around.

• 

I collected my grandson Cooper from primary school before Christmas. I hadn’t seen him for a while, so we were both a bit excited. When he got into the car, he told me he’d like to come to my place for a bit, so off we went. We chilled out while he brought me up to speed with the many developments in his world and then I gave him his dinner.

It’s compulsory to have some treats afterwards, and one of the advantages of being a granddad is that I don’t have to be as strict with him as I was with my own children. I’m not as responsible as I used to be. Anyway, he knows all the hiding places by now, so he’ll help himself whether I give them to him or not.

I was expecting a delivery by courier that day, so we couldn’t go too far. We hung around the house until eventually, a truck arrived in the driveway and a large box was plonked at the front door. It was a rowing machine but that’s a story for another day.

These delivery guys are only paid to drop it outside and that’s fair enough, but I needed to get it into the house before it rained. The box was about four feet tall and wasn’t exactly lightweight and while Cooper was very willing to help me, I was afraid if it fell on him, the poor child would be no more. That would lead to an uncomfortable conversation with an irate daughter, so I did my best to keep him out of it.

My back isn’t great at the best of times, but I persevered as carefully as I could. There was lots of groaning and grunting and it didn’t take me long to get it wedged in the doorway. Cooper, who is a six-year-old going on twenty, offered many solutions and between the two of us, we got it into the hallway.

The next step was to free the machine from the packaging. Cooper was very keen to tackle it with my stanley knife but then thought that blowing up the box might be quicker. Grateful for all his suggestions, I ploughed ahead, and we eventually succeeded in removing the machine from the mountain of cardboard, polystyrene, and plastic.

Cooper had been full of anticipation up to this point and couldn’t wait to see it in action. He insisted that he should have the first go on it to show me how it worked. I’m very fortunate that Cooper knows everything. I was about to explain that before the machine could be assembled, there was the tricky business of getting it up into the attic, but I had lost him by then.

The big empty box had now become the focus of his attention. He brought it into the front room and turned it on its side to make a camp out of it. He filled it with cushions, some toys, a torch and a book until it took on the appearance of a survival shelter.

When he realised the world wasn’t about to end after all, he gathered some extra pieces of packaging and turned the camp into an army tank. I had to cut a hole in the top to make a turret and no sooner had I done that when it was transformed into a shop.

I had long since given up any hope of trying to concentrate on the instructions for putting the machine together. I was now fully occupied with being a target for a tank gunner, a passenger in a space rocket and a full-time customer at the new shop but it was very entertaining watching his imagination run wild. He was having a ball.

I have an old spare smartphone that I keep for Cooper and it’s connected to the Internet so he can watch Kids Youtube and I keep it charged for when he calls. He took the phone to his shop and wedged it into a piece of polystyrene packaging until only the screen was visible. Then he told me to swipe my card on the screen when I was buying something. I was gobsmacked. When my kids were playing shop, we had to give them a supply of loose change, but this guy had gone high tech.

Cooper is only six, but his world is already so far removed from what my own kids were familiar with at his age. It’s frightening to see technology advancing so quickly but these kids have no problem keeping up. They take it all in their stride unlike us old codgers but yet, for all the modern technology, it was an empty cardboard box and his imagination that kept him amused for an entire afternoon.

Children can adapt to any situation and they’ve already discovered at their young age, that things can change quickly. Covid-19 is something new they have to deal with, but they will cope.

My wife recently called to see my daughter who was at home with her two children. She was confined to barracks after having had recent surgery and her partner was at work, so Gaye delivered some essentials to her. She was only popping in for a miniute and she had her mask on.

Naturally, the kids were delighted to see her, and the two-year-old guy didn’t want her to leave. He told her to stay and to take off her coat. He wanted her to put her keys away and then he got her to sit down on the couch. The one thing he didn’t ask her to do, was to take off her mask because face coverings have become normal to him.

Sad to see that but hopefully it won’t be for too much longer.

• 

It was reported in the middle of December that the former State Pathologist, Professor John Harbison had died. He was in his 80s and passed away peacefully according to a death notice. That name might not mean much to lots of people and that’s understandable because he had been out of the limelight for many years and kept a low profile.

During my working life though, there wasn’t a single member of An Garda Siochana who wouldn’t have been familiar with him. He was a legend, and everyone had their own story to tell about him.

Professor John Harbison was appointed as the state’s first forensic Pathologist in 1974 and held that position until he retired in 2003. He was instantly recognisable with his full beard, tweed clothes and his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was involved in all the high-profile murder cases during that time and regularly appeared on the news arriving at a murder scene.

Before serving as the first forensic pathologist in the country, he lectured in medical jurisprudence at Trinity College Dublin, and in the early 1990s was appointed professor of forensic medicine and toxicology at the Royal College of Surgeons. He came to the Garda College in Templemore in 1979 to speak to us trainees about the importance of preserving evidence at a crime scene and he was very impressive.

I met him on a few occasions subsequently, and he was a bit of a character. It wasn’t unusual for him to produce a sandwich while performing an autopsy and I know a few gardai who removed themselves from a post-mortem after watching him in action. He took his job seriously though and was always respectful to the dead.

He was also well known for calling a spade a spade and when asked about the bad odour in a morgue he said, “When decomposition begins, things rapidly become very smelly.” They certainly do and that was very true of the old city morgue in White Street in Cork.

It was an old inconspicuous building off Georges Quay, and will be remembered by older and retired members of An Garda Siochana and not in a nice way. It had a large timber sliding door at the front and most people walking by probably didn’t even know that it was the city morgue although they may have had their suspicions at times.

Post-mortem examinations were carried out there, but it wasn’t fit for purpose. It was sadly lacking in the ventilation department and the smell could be very unpleasant, so it was not the place to be if you were of a delicate disposition. I suspect those odours could often be detected by passers-by on the street outside too.

It was no place to bring relatives of deceased persons either which we regularly had to do for the purpose of having a body formally identified. The morgue attendants in those days sometimes bought their own sprays to try and neutralise the air but they weren’t always effective.

Dr. Margaret Bolster, another well-known pathologist, once told me that the best way to combat the odour was to fill your lungs with it. She suggested that instead of trying to fight it, it was better to take a few deep breaths and while the initial effect might not be very pleasant, you didn’t notice it so much after that. She was right but sometimes the smell could linger in your nostrils for days.

That morgue eventually closed in the late nineties and a new, modern facility was developed in the Cork University Hospital. It was a state-of-the-art facility with a viewing area, a waiting room and a prayer room. I think the old place was demolished and replaced with apartments and not a moment too soon either. Post-mortem examinations were difficult enough without having to tolerate dire conditions as well.

Some gardai can go through their entire service without ever having to attend an autopsy but I wasn’t one of them. I went through a period in the nineties when I had to attend five of them in the space of eight weeks. It was just the luck of the draw and while they can be unpleasant, they are an essential part of certain criminal investigations.

The purpose of an autopsy is to determine the cause of death. In cases where someone dies in suspicious, sudden, violent, or unexplained circumstances, the Coroner will authorise a post-mortem examination or autopsy, and then nominates a pathologist to carry out the examination.

Post-mortems provide important information about how, when and why someone died, and they enable pathologists to obtain a better understanding of how death occurred. The findings of the Pathologist are essential for those investigating the death and also to assist the Coroner at the subsequent inquest.

It’s a difficult experience for all involved but an essential process that can play a significant role in bringing an offender to justice. Apart from criminal circumstances, autopsies assist in preventing future natural deaths by identifying causes and providing vital information to medicine.

It’s important therefore that people are trained in this business and bodies are required for that purpose which is why universities are so grateful when remains are donated to them for scientific purposes. Anatomical donation makes a unique contribution to training the next generation of health professionals and scientists.

Noel Baker pointed out in the Irish Examiner recently that senior medics have said a shortage of bodies donated to universities for anatomical work because of Covid-19 raises “significant concerns in terms of the progression of trainees to surgical training”.

That’s not good news because without these generous donations, it will be difficult to replace the likes of John Harbison, Marie Cassidy and Margaret Bolster and we need these people.