Trevor Laffan

We have a small room downstairs in our house that’s multifunctional. There’s a desk, some drawers and a printer in there so when I’m using it, I call it the office. Sounds posh. My wife is more practical, and she calls it the junk room.

She has a point because there are times when I can hardly find a space to sit down. In fact, sometimes I can’t even find the desk. There is a coat stand in there that is so full of coats, there’s no room for coats so they end up on the desk and they’re joined by everything else in the house that doesn’t have a place of its own.

Every now and then I make a burst and tidy the place up and, on those occasions, I love to sit back and enjoy the space.

It was on one of those rare moments that my solitude was broken by an unusual sound. Unusual for that room anyway. It was the sound of water dripping and it didn’t take me long to find the source. It was coming from above my head.

There was a large circular damp patch on the ceiling and a drop was forming in the centre of it like a bullseye on a dartboard. Every now and then it would plop onto the timber floor. I went upstairs to investigate, and I soon established that it was coming from the shower in my son’s room.

I sent for the builder who examined the bathroom and immediately declared it a disaster area and closed it down. He sealed it off like a crime scene. Then he started banging things with his hammer and dismantling stuff and within a short period of time, the shower was removed and was lying in several pieces out in the back garden.

The full state of the damage was revealed. The shower had obviously been leaking for years because some of the timber underneath was completely rotten. This was going to be a bigger job than we had anticipated originally and a lot more expensive too, so we decided that we would involve our insurance company.

I contacted our insurer and a lady spent a few minutes telling me what I wasn’t insured for and how I would be penalised if I made a claim. She told me she would send an assessor out to view the damage.

A lady assessor arrived a few days later accompanied by a builder, and he got down to business surveying the affected area. He quickly concluded that the cause of the problem was a badly sealed shower and not an issue with the pipework. The assessor advised me that this was bad news for me.

She was very sympathetic but because the pipework wasn’t the cause, she couldn’t cover the cost of the repairs.

I wasn’t particularly concerned with how the damage was caused. I was more concerned with the state of the bathroom and the large gaping hole in the floor in front of me and how it was all going to be paid for.

The sympathetic assessor lady offered more sympathy and then drove off with her builder friend leaving me alone with my wasteland of a bathroom and my thoughts. And no money.

I questioned the value of having insurance when it wouldn’t help me in my time of need. I always seem to be paying top price and receiving nothing in return except sympathy.

I have been paying for car insurance for over forty years and I’ve never had a claim. I have a full no claims bonus for all that time but in spite of that, I paid more for my car insurance this year than ever before.

My mother’s house has been vacant since she died two years ago and there’s nothing in it. We have the heating coming on a couple of times a day to keep the dampness at bay and for the privilege of having that empty house sitting there minding its own business, I have to pay an annual premium of six hundred and sixty euro.

As far as I can make out, the house is covered for very little, but the company will pay out in the unlikely event of a plane crashing into it which is very useful.

A few years ago, I was driving to Dublin when somewhere near Cahir, I hit a brick that was sitting in the middle of the overtaking lane on the motorway and I ended up on the grass verge on the left-hand side of the road. I was lucky it wasn’t more serious, but the tyre was in bits and the alloy wheel was goosed.

It cost me over €500 to replace them so I contacted the insurance company to see what they had to say for themselves. They told me that I would have to pay the first three hundred euro myself and it would also affect my no claims bonus so they suggested it would be cheaper for me to pay for it myself. So I did.

We had a Nissan Almera as a second car a few years back until a drunk driver crashed into it and wrote it off. The insurance company deemed the car to be worth a lot less to them than it was to us, so we got buttons for it.

So, the long and the short of it is, I’ve been paying insurance all my life to cover one thing or the other and I never get any benefit from it. If I didn’t have it though, I’d be the first one to suffer the consequences.

If my mother’s house was uninsured for a single day, I guarantee you a Boeing 747 would plough straight through the bedroom window.

I’m not a fan of night-time driving anymore. My eyesight isn’t as good as it once was and even though I have glasses with anti-glare lenses, I still find it difficult driving against the lights of oncoming traffic. Especially on unlit roads when it’s raining.

I’m OK in my own locality where I’m familiar with the roads but beyond that I’m a little uncomfortable. I thought it was just me, but I’ve been discussing this with some friends lately, and many of them are having the same issue.

I’m not sure how we survived back in the day when there were no road markings and head lights were like two small candles but there were fewer cars on the road then too. Everyone took their time as well, so I suppose it was easier.

When I lived in Dublin in the early eighties, it took time to get used to the way traffic kept going all night long. It never took a break while in Cork city, the traffic eased around 2am and slept until about 6am. Then the city gradually began to wake up.

But that’s changed now, and Cork is constantly on the move too. Getting around isn’t easy, especially at rush hour when driving can be a pain. Motoring for many has become a chore and nothing about driving is simple anymore.

Take taxing the car for example. I thought computerisation had made this process a lot less painful, but I was wrong.  

In the old days, we went out to the County Hall and queued up for an eternity before handing over our paperwork to a frowning clerk sitting behind a glass screen. They all frowned and scowled back then while they inspected the forms for mistakes.

This was always a tense moment because If they found one, they sent you off to fill out the form properly and then you had to join the back of the queue again.

Happy in the belief that those days were long gone, I set about taxing my car for 2020. I sat smugly in the comfort of my recliner and went online with the Department of Transport in Shannon, Co. Clare. I clicked a few buttons, filled some boxes, gave my credit card details and pressed send.

I got a receipt by email soon after, and that was that. Job done.

Then I forgot about it for two weeks until it dawned on me that I never received my tax disc. Doubting myself, I went out and checked my windscreen and, sure enough, it wasn’t there. So, I sent off an email to the Department of Transport in Shannon and told them my story and this is the reply I received;

‘To date your tax disc has not been returned to our offices in Shannon by An Post. Your tax disc may have got lost in the post, you will need to apply for a duplicate.

In some instances, it has been known to take up to 10 working days for motor tax disc to be delivered by An Post. Unfortunately, we are unable to issue a duplicate tax disc. This can only be done at your local Motor Tax Office. The procedure to get a duplicate Tax Disc is as follows:

You must complete an RF134 form. On this form you must state that you didn’t receive your Tax Disc in the post after taxing online and this must be witnessed by a Garda. Bring or post this to your local Motor Tax Office and they will issue the duplicate tax disc to you. This procedure is the same if you had taxed your vehicle by post at your local Motor Tax Office and did not receive the disc in the post.

The above procedure has to be followed in order to get duplicates for any official documents (tax disc, vehicle registration book, vehicle licensing certificate etc) that have been lost in the post.

Apologies for the inconvenience caused.’

So, I contacted my local motor tax office in Cork and queried the procedure with the lady. I couldn’t see why I had to solve the problem when I had done nothing wrong. I had kept my part of the deal. I applied online and paid my fee, but I never got what I paid for. Not my fault.

I didn’t lose anything but it was now my responsibility to go to a garda station, fill out the paperwork, get it signed by a garda, get an envelope, go to the post office, buy a stamp and post the letter back to the people who should have sent me the disc in the first place.

When I told her this, she assured me that she didn’t lose anything either and seemed annoyed that I should even be suggesting that her department might be to blame. She stuck to her guns that An Post was at fault and if I wanted my disc I would have to follow the procedure as outlined.

So, I did as I was told, but I was still wondering where the original tax disc went. Was it sitting in a computer somewhere in Shannon begging to be freed from the machinery? Or was it languishing in a sorting office pining for its new owner?

I’d be surprised if An Post lost it because I’ve never failed to receive my post. In fact, I once got a letter addressed to Trevor Laffan, Ireland so I have great faith in our postal service.

Before I could post my letter requesting a duplicate, my tax disc came through the letterbox. I don’t know when it was posted because there was no date on the envelope, but it was eighteen days after I applied for it. I’m still not blaming Postman Pat though.

Two major events happened simultaneously in Ireland in June 1984 and that caused problems for the media because they were anxious to cover both. Ronald Reagan was visiting Ballyporeen, and I was getting married. In the end, they concentrated on Ronnie.

The wedding marked the end of a couple of busy years for me and my queen. We bought a site in 1982 and built a house on it. It was all go. We moved in before it was finished so we had to improvise a bit. We managed fine and gradually developed it over the years as our finances improved.

We had no wardrobes, so we hung our clothes from lengths of timber that were nailed together to form a rough clothes horse. It looked unsightly but did the job.

We had no central heating either, so we dragged a ‘super ser’ gas heater from room to room on concrete floors until we got the heating sorted. That was a noisy job as anyone who remembers those things will testify.

A ‘super-ser’ was a tin box on wheels and every part of it rattled. It carried the gas bottle inside, and it made an awful racket rolling around the house on the bare floors. It was all we had, and it only heated the room we were in. A glass of water sat on top to absorb some of the fumes because they were a bit smelly.

We took our time doing up the house and completed it in stages. That was the way people did it back then, but things have changed. Young people these days don’t want to wait for anything. They want the fully furnished perfect home and they want it now. And that’s not all they want.

A financial planner was telling me that lots of middle-aged couples are seeking advice on how to prepare for their children’s future. They specifically want to be able to pay for their children’s wedding and provide the deposit for their house.

He said, today’s children have an expectation that mam and dad will cough up for the nuptials and provide the down payment for the house. I didn’t like the sound of that.

My daughter is getting married shortly, and we fully expect to be involved and we’re happy to do what we can. I know it’s going to cost me, so it’s all about damage limitation. I’m hoping to get away with just paying for the bouquet, but I doubt it. I have a few ideas though about where costs could be reduced.

We could use public transport to get everyone to the venue. I could take a few photos with my phone and post them on Whatsapp to save on a photographer. Everyone could bring some sandwiches to the reception and we could use the piped music in the hotel instead of a band.

Or there might be an even better way to go.

A Cypriot friend of mine was telling me that he was invited to a wedding and there were two and a half thousand guests at it. At a previous wedding, there were so many guests that they ran out of space in the hotel and had to direct some of the guests to another hotel nearby. It wasn’t a problem though.

In that part of the world, when a local girl is getting married, the whole village is invited. Nobody knows how many will turn up or how much food will be needed but it seems to work and there’s no panic.

The weather was unsettled then too so they weren’t sure on the day, what church they would use. They wanted a very small old church which meant some of the ceremony would be held outdoors but if the weather was bad, they would move to the larger venue. So, they had two churches on stand-by, and the decision wouldn’t be made until the last miniute. Imagine the state of the Irish mammy!!

Cyprus has a few different wedding traditions too. On the day of the wedding, the groom and his family and friends make their way to the bride’s house to collect her and they all depart for the church together. If the wedding is taking place in a village, they all walk.

Before entering the church, the bride’s parents give her away to the groom and they walk up the aisle together. Their parents join them and stand with them throughout the ceremony. 

Early in the festivities, the unmarried friends of the bride write their names on the soles of the bride’s shoes. At the end of the evening, the bride removes her shoes and the woman whose name remains written there will be the next to marry. 

Midway in the celebration, the couple perform the newlywed dance, offering their guests the opportunity to pin money to the couple’s clothing, to help with the wedding expenses.

When he told me there were over two thousand mouths to feed, I had a weakness until he explained it to me. You see, everyone who turns up must pay for the privilege. A brown envelope kind of thing and there can be considerable amounts of money collected to help the couple get off to a good start in life. So that gave me an idea.

I’m issuing a general invitation to the lovely, generous people of Cobh, Midleton and surrounding areas, to attend my daughter’s wedding in April. I don’t know where it’s going to take place yet, but don’t worry about that. Just stuff as much as you can into that A.4 size envelope and hand it to me.

I’ll be standing on Belvelly Bridge on the way into Cobh and you’ll easily recognise me. I’ll be the guy with the big smile on his face.

Hardly a day goes by now when I don’t get a call on my landline at home from some guy advising me that my broadband is about to be disconnected or telling me that my Internet is slow. They always tell me not to worry though because they can solve my problem. Lucky for me.

I was changing my phone a few weeks ago at an Eir shop in Midleton and I got talking to the guy working there about these calls and he told me that they get them in the shop too. So, these characters are ringing Eir to tell them they can improve their Internet for them.

What they want of course, is to get you to open the laptop and follow their instructions to make changes to your computer which will then give them remote access to it. They effectively have control of it then so the caller and his buddies can monitor your online credit card transactions and soon they’ll have all the necessary information they require to clone your credit card.

While these guys are a complete pain- and it is mostly men with foreign accents- it’s easy to get rid of them by just hanging up the phone. Or, if you’re in the humour, and you have some time on your hands, you can lead them on a merry dance for a while until they eventually get frustrated and hang up on you instead. Juvenile maybe, but mildly entertaining.

It’s very difficult for law enforcement people to do anything about these scammers. Their phone numbers are impossible to trace because they’re buried deep in cyber space and other places that I don’t understand, so the best thing to do is ignore them and just hang up the phone.

There are other scammers out there though who are more devious and dangerous. I’m talking about the people who promote so called miracle cures by spreading misinformation around treatments for cancer in order to make money.

Back in April, Fine Gael’s Kate O’Connell was proposing legislation to outlaw this behaviour with penalties of up to €1m for offenders who advertise fake or unregulated treatments for cancer.

It’s hard to believe that this kind of legislation should even be necessary, but this is the world we now live in. Some people are prepared to earn a living by preying on the sick. Making money by offering false hope of miracle cures to vulnerable patients who will grab at anything that might give them a chance to extend their lives.

It’s difficult to understand how these creatures can look at themselves in a mirror or how they can look at their family members in the eye without feeling complete and utter shame. Cheating seriously ill and dying patients is as low as one can go.

The Irish Cancer Society has welcomed the proposed new law that will ban advertisements of so-called cancer “treatments”. They are referring to the ads that claim cancer can be treated by ‘miracle’ foods, fad diets and homeopathic remedies, ads that will never see the light of day under the proposed legislation.

Averil Power, Chief Executive of the Irish Cancer Society said: “Vulnerable patients are being targeted with false claims that cancer can be cured by things such as ‘miracle foods’, coffee enemas and homeopathy. They are being encouraged to ignore their doctors’ advice, stop medical treatment and have faith in so-called ‘alternatives’ that have no scientific basis.

Such dangerous advice leaves them at risk of harmful side-effects and even death. “When you are diagnosed with cancer, a natural response is to search for ways to increase your chances of surviving the disease. Patients suffering side effects associated with conventional treatments such as chemotherapy also understandably want to know if there is a ‘better’ option.

This leaves them vulnerable to false claims made by people who profit from the sale or promotion of alternative treatments.”

From my own personal experience, I have a new understanding of this issue. My brush with prostate cancer was minor compared to what many other sufferers are going through, but I reacted like everyone else who gets that diagnosis. The wind was taken out of me and there were lots of outcomes and scenarios running through my mind. Mostly unpleasant ones.

When I was told I would have to wait three months for a test to see if the cancer had progressed beyond the prostate, I was thrown into a panic. I spent the next few hours on the phone trying to establish if I could have this test done sooner.

In those few hours my emotions were all over the place and I was completely stressed and vulnerable. It’s hard to describe the sense of relief I felt when I got it sorted.

The point I’m trying to make here, is that when you are faced with a cancer diagnosis, you don’t always behave rationally. No matter how minor your condition is, cancer is a worry. I can only imagine how patients with a serious or terminal condition must feel. They are functioning on a different level altogether and prepared to grasp at anything that offers a bit of hope.

Trying to cash in on the suffering of others by offering them a false cure is despicable. Fuelled by greed and without an ounce of compassion, they see an opportunity to make money with no regard for the physical or mental welfare of those they’re extorting money from.  

The Irish Cancer Society recommends patients seek information from medical professionals, qualified dieticians and trusted sources such as www.cancer.ie. Cancer specialist nurses are also happy to answer any queries and address any concerns patients, or their carers, may have. They can be contacted on Freephone 1800 200 700 or by email to cancernurseline@irishcancer.ie

My grandson, Cooper, asked me if I would go and watch him playing rugby one Saturday morning. He’s five and he showed me his rugby gear, including his gum shield and he looked the part. I was dying to see him in action so off I went even though I was a little concerned for him.

I was concerned because it was my first time having anything to do with rugby in years and my previous experience didn’t end well. As a youngster I had trained with Cobh Pirates a few times, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that rugby wasn’t for me. On my last outing, I dived to tackle a player around the legs but mistimed it.

His heel caught me in the mouth and all I can remember after that is talking with a bit of a lisp while most of the blood in my body was draining out of me. I ran my tongue over my teeth trying to figure out how many I had lost which seemed like a waste of time considering that I was about to die any miniute.

Fortunately, I survived that near-death experience but that was the end of my short- lived rugby career. I decided to dedicate my life to a sport I could enjoy without risking my life and getting my clothes covered in blood. So, I took up tennis.

Anyway, it was because of that memory, that I nervously went to watch my little buddy. I needn’t have worried though because things have changed dramatically since then. The modern set up is very civilised and the coaching is well organised and professional. The kids are only allowed to tap tackle at that age, so there is no risk of mutilation.

They were all having a great time which is how it should be and that’s why Cooper loves it and looks forward to his training every week. There were at least four lads coaching his small group of five-year olds, so they all got plenty of attention and each one of them was encouraged and praised. It was all very positive.

There were several pitches being used and kids of all ages running around and having fun. It was noisy too with coaches issuing instructions, whistles blowing, kids shouting and adults offering encouragement. It was a hive of activity.

I take my hat off to all those volunteers who give up their time at weekends to engage with the children. I’m sure there are times when they would prefer to take a lie in on a cold, wet winters morning but they don’t. They haul themselves out of bed and turn up week in, week out to offer their time for their sport.

They’re not the only ones either. Cooper goes to soccer practice after his rugby and it’s the same thing there.

They use several astro turf facilities to cater for all the kids and again there are lots of adults involved in the coaching. I’m told it’s the same in the local G.A.A. Club and that’s replicated in every town and village across the country.

The other thing I noticed was how the training process has advanced since I was a child. There was a structure to it and the coaches had obviously been trained and knew what they were doing.

In my day, it was a lot different. Training generally involved lots of adults shouting instructions from the side-line and getting all worked up. The instructions were mostly unintelligible and very often contradictory and were usually accompanied by frothing at the mouth.

I played GAA football for my school and I loved it. I loved the action and the comradery, but I hated being shouted at. I don’t remember receiving any proper instruction on how to play or getting any encouragement from the side-line either. No matter what I did, I seemed to upset someone. In the end, I just got fed up with the lot of them and threw in the towel.

I also loved soccer and in later years I discovered that there are times when it’s ok just to put the ball out of play. To kick it into the stand. But nobody told me that when I was a kid and I suspect that many of the adults didn’t have a clue what they were talking about either.

I was never going to threaten the world of professional football and I knew that. I didn’t have a competitive bone in my body which is essential if you want to be even mildly successful in any sport. I never minded losing and that was frowned upon.

I don’t know if you can teach someone to be competitive or if you’re born that way, but in any event, I wasn’t that way inclined and there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Thankfully, coaching has changed for the better. There is a more professional approach now which the kids are obviously enjoying. Encouragement is the new order of the day.

I see that a lot with my own son now who is a highly qualified professional tennis coach. He coaches all ages and I have watched him in action with the children and he has endless patience.

When it comes to playing though, he is extremely competitive and absolutely hates losing. Must get that from his mother. But when it comes to dealing with the youngsters, it’s all about fun, learning and enjoyment. If there were more like him around in my junior days, maybe I would have stuck with the football and who knows?

Maybe I could have played soccer alongside Liam Brady or football beside Tony Davis. Who am I kidding? There wasn’t a coach on the Planet who could have managed that.

I’ve been renting apartments abroad on and off for a few years now and whenever I finish up with them, I invariably leave a few bits and pieces behind. Deliberately. Nothing major, just small stuff like maybe a cereal bowl, a mug, a sweeping brush, and there’s a reason for that.

I like a decent cereal bowl. There’s nothing worse than trying to dig your cereal out of something that would fit in a commode. By the same token, large saucers masquerading as bowls are not acceptable either because I want to cover the cereal with milk.

I also like a decent mug instead of a cup. Everyone knows that the first cup of tea in the morning is the nicest, so you want to make it last. But I don’t like large mugs that spill tea down both sides of your neck so, if these little essentials are not supplied in the apartment, I’ll go and get them myself.

When I leave the apartment, the next person can use them or throw them out, I don’t care.

It might seem like a first world problem, but I’m telling you this by way of introducing a subject that seems to be cropping up a lot lately concerning guests stealing items from hotels. Not just little shampoo sachets, we’re talking about serious theft.

Mattresses, TV sets, coffee makers, pictures off the walls, towels, bathrobes and even bed linen have all been taken and it seems that everything in the hotel room is fair game for some light-fingered guests.

I thought it would be difficult to walk through the reception area pulling a large mattress behind you without attracting the attention of the receptionist, but some hotel elevators do go to the basement car park which would solve that problem.

But that doesn’t explain why you’d bother going to all that trouble to steal a mattress in the first place. Especially one that hundreds of other people have already slept on. But then, why would anyone want to steal towels, shower heads or light bulbs either?

This activity is more widespread than I thought, and apparently some of the offenders would surprise you. I shouldn’t be shocked at that though, because I witnessed an incident years ago that left me open mouthed.

I stayed in a hotel in eastern Europe many years ago that couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be confused with the Ritz. It would probably have a one-star rating here if you were feeling generous.

I sat in the foyer after checking out, waiting for a lift to the airport. There weren’t regular flights out of there in those days so there were a few others availing of this London flight.

I recognised one of the faces from the world of stage and screen. He was well known at the time and he had a hat pulled down over his eyes, trying to remain anonymous. Nobody was rushing over to ask for his autograph, but I could see some others looking at him trying to figure out if it was him or not.

I was sitting next to him, but I didn’t attempt to start up a conversation because his demeanour wasn’t very inviting. He didn’t talk to anyone and I got the impression that this was a guy who just wanted to be left alone.

After a while, a bus turned up to collect the first group, of which our friend was one, and off they went. They were no sooner out the front door when I heard a bit of a fuss and some raised voices coming from outside. Then, the doors opened and in came our friend again flanked by a couple of security men.

He opened his suitcase in the middle of the foyer as instructed and produced a bunch of towels which he handed over to the security men. His attempt at keeping a low profile was well and truly blown by now and the whole episode had me totally baffled for a couple of reasons.

In that part of the world, the towels supplied in the hotels were like long, thin, tea towels. They were about half the width of a regular towel and I’m not sure what material they were made of, but they did nothing to dry you. They only spread water around your body. They were terrible things and it made no sense that someone would want to take them.

I’d also be surprised if this guy was short of money, so what is that turns normal hotel guests into kleptomaniacs? Is it the thrill or do they feel entitled to take stuff because they have paid for the room?

It’s a big problem and one hotel chain has even suggested that it is best to ask reception if you are unsure whether something is complimentary or not.

It’s hard to believe that there are people who need to be reminded that the mattress or TV can’t be treated in the same way as the complimentary chocolate left on the pillow but it’s the truth and it’s not only hotel guests who need reminding.

There was a story circulating many years ago about Nicolae Ceausecu, the infamous Romanian dictator. Apparently, he and his wife were touring Europe and they stayed in Paris as guests of the President of France before going on to London to meet the Queen.

It’s said that President d’Estang contacted the staff in Buckingham Palace and warned them to lock up their valuables because the Ceausecu’s had rifled the Elysee Palace and walked off with anything that would move.

That does it. You obviously can’t trust anyone these days so from now on, if you call to my place, you’ll be frisked on the way out. You have been warned.

Driving in Ireland is bad enough but driving a car in Cyprus is definitely not for the faint hearted. It is a challenge to say the least and if you ever decide to go there, prepare to go to war or stick to public transport.

You need nerves of steel to survive and it starts when you turn on the engine. It’s like having a price on your head and waiting for the next attempt on your life.

I love Cyprus and I love the people, which is why I spend so much time there, but they can’t drive. It’s like being in the dodgems or the bumpers. I reckon they must be using a different set of the rules of the road to everyone else.

They don’t use indicators, they ignore stop signs, traffic lights and pedestrian crossings and you can be guaranteed that they will pull out in front of you regardless of who has the right of way.

They park where they like with scant regard for any danger or any inconvenience that may be caused. They have no problem parking on a corner and if they can’t fit the whole car into a parking space, they’ll get as much of it in as they can and then abandon it even though the rest of the car might be sticking out and blocking half the street.

They drive fast, and they don’t mind tail gating. They all use mobile phones and no matter what courtesy you show them they won’t acknowledge it. At the very best, you might get a slight nod of the head but that’s as close to a ‘thank you’ as you’re going to get.

They also love their high-powered motor bikes, preferably with noisy engines. They drive them at ridiculous speeds, especially on the motorway, and they don’t always wear helmets or protective clothing. It’s not unusual to catch a brief glimpse of one passing you at the speed of sound, dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt with the hair blowing in the wind.

They like doing wheelies too and it’s very common to see them going up and down the streets on the rear wheel only.

I was involved in a slight accident on the main street in Paralimni a few years ago when an elderly guy ignored a stop sign and pulled out in front of me. It was only a slight tip, but I was driving a rented car, so I called the police. They arrived very quickly and began taking details when suddenly, this large motor bike passed us with the front wheel in the air.

He went to the bottom of the street, turned around and came back again and as he passed us for the second time, he put the bike on the back wheel again and roared past. I was waiting for a reaction from the policemen but there was none, so I asked one of them if it bothered him. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, “What I can do?”

When I was a policeman, I wouldn’t have been asking “What I can do?”

Over there, when you’re involved in a traffic accident, you must phone the police and then contact your insurance company. I did as I was instructed but I wasn’t expecting much from the insurance company, so I was surprised when a representative turned up shortly after the police. This is what they do.

They carry out their own investigation and determine there and then, who is right or wrong. In my case, the other guy was responsible for the damage and I was told to take the car to the garage and everything was sorted. I never heard from that insurance guy again and I didn’t even have to fill out a form. It was unbelievably efficient and something we could look at here.

You may be wondering why I keep going back to that hazardous environment and risking my life Well, the answer is straight forward. I’ve learned to live with it, and I don’t let it bother me anymore because there’s actually something refreshing about it.

These people have a very relaxed attitude to life. They go with the flow and they aren’t big on formalities and regulations. They do what they like, and they expect you to do the same. They don’t complain about the small stuff. They are very tolerant people and it’s hard to get annoyed with them, so I don’t anymore, I just accept it.

I was driving through some narrow streets in a village called Oriklini and I was concentrating on trying to find an address when I suddenly found myself driving the wrong way down a narrow one-way system. Every car I met coming towards me just pulled in to let me pass and not one of them blew the horn or abused me. There was no drama because it didn’t bother them.

They’re laid back and they don’t beat you to death with rules and regulations so you can get on with life whatever way you like. Health and safety hasn’t invaded Cyprus yet either.

There was a large hole in the ground outside a pub after the local authority did some work there and it was left unattended for weeks. It wasn’t a pothole; it was more like a grave and there was no protection around it. Nothing to advise people that it even existed. It was dangerous, particularly at night but people just avoided it and as far as I know, nobody fell into it.

Political correctness isn’t strangling the island either and conversation flows freely without fear of causing offence which is great because these people aren’t in any way offensive.

It reminds me of what Ireland was like a long time ago.

There was a certain sound that was very familiar to the residents of Cobh, and the surrounding areas, from the sixties up to 1984. It was the sound of the siren in Verolme Cork Dockyard. It was impossible to avoid because it was loud enough to wake the dead and it wailed several times a day.

It went off at specific times and you could set your watch by it. Many did I suspect. It sounded at 10am every morning to let the workers know it was time for a tea break.

The canteen staff made large urns of tea that were collected by a tractor and delivered to the various departments in the yard for the morning cuppa. The siren went off again ten minutes later to tell them to get back to work.

At 1pm, the siren announced that it was time for the lunch break and at 1.30pm it chased them back to the grindstone. The final siren of the day was at 4.30pm to let everyone know it was time to go home.

The size of the workforce varied from between 800 and 1000 and I can remember, as a youngster in the seventies, hordes of men spilling out of shipyard at finishing time like a crowd coming out of a stadium after a football match.

Rushbrooke train station was directly across the road from the entrance to Verolme and many employees used the train to get to the city.

There were many sub-contractors too who benefitted from Verolme including the people who supplied materials to the site such as steel, timber, paint and food for the canteen. It was great for the local economy.

Cornelis Verolme owned several shipyards in Holland and when he bought the Cork Dockyard in 1960, he had big plans for it. He wanted to have the right people in place from the outset, so he sent some of his foremen to Cobh to help organise and train the workforce. He also took some of the Cork workers to Holland to train them there.

Adrie Verwey was one of the Dutchmen who came here as a foreman joiner on 31^st January 1961. He reckons there were about thirty of his countrymen working here in total.

When Adrie first arrived in Cobh, he stayed in a house near Whitepoint, not far from the dockyard. Verolme bought this large house to accommodate the Dutch workforce and employed people to cook and clean for them. Later on, the company built a scheme of houses nearby and rented them to the foremen.

The estate is known locally as Dutch Villas or Dutch Village.

Adrie had always been interested in joinery but his dad advised him to stay away from the building industry because it was too fickle and full of ups and downs. He told him to concentrate on ship building and he took his father’s advice.

He served his apprenticeship in Holland and while working there, he saw a poster on a notice board looking for foremen to work in Ireland and Brazil. He decided he wanted to travel but he was unsure which country to opt for.

He was staying in digs at the time with a chef who had spent a lot of time at sea and he was familiar with Cork. He told Adrie that Cork was a nice place and it was also closer to Holland than Brazil, which would make it easier to return home for visits.

That made sense to Adrie and as he had some basic English and no Spanish or Portuguese, he decided Ireland was the better choice. They were given a few English lessons before they left Holland and off they went.

Adrie travelled with another guy and because there were no direct flights to Ireland, they flew from Schiphol to London. While trying to board the flight to Ireland they were stopped by Immigration Officers who told them they couldn’t continue their journey because they had no work permits.

A KLM pilot was passing by and overheard their discussion and realised that the lads didn’t have a great command of the English language, so he stopped to help. It took some time, but the problem was eventually resolved but by then they had missed their flight so, they ended up on the last flight to Dublin and then got the last train from Dublin to Cork.

They eventually arrived in their new accommodation in Cobh in the early hours of the morning after overcoming their first challenge.

Another immediate challenges he faced was working with the Imperial measurement of feet and inches. He was used to the metric system and he found the three- foot measuring stick a bit unusual.

He was initially sent here on a five-year contract, but it ran on a bit longer that he imagined and he’s still here, nearly sixty years later. His extended stay is due to another contract he entered into after meeting his wife, Gretta. They met while she was working in the canteen in Verolme.

Gretta is a Cobh native and she was a manager in the canteen in those days. Feeding that amount of men every day was no easy task, but she said there was a great buzz around the place and the men were all very nice.

I asked Adrie what he missed most about working away from home in the early days and without hesitation he told me it was the ice-cream. Ice-cream parlours were common in Holland, and he said the taste here just wasn’t the same.

His craving for sweetness was sorted though, when he met Gretta. They’ve been together for 55 years and both enjoy good health and I noticed with amusement that after all these years, Adrie still hasn’t lost his Dutch accent.

I came across a story recently concerning two nuns who became pregnant during missionary trips to Africa. The African women, who are from different orders in Italy, reportedly got pregnant while on separate missions to their home country and the matter is now under investigation by the Catholic Church.

Life isn’t straight forward for the nuns and Pope Francis has acknowledged that the Roman Catholic Church has had complaints of Catholic nuns being sexually abused and he said the Church has faced a persistent problem of sexual abuse of nuns by priests and bishops.

Stories like this have been circulating for many years and finally, for the first time, a pope has publicly acknowledged that this has been going on and Pope Francis said he is determined to do more to deal with the issue and says that this work has already begun.

That’s good to hear and it’s about time too because they have a lot of work to do. Historically, the Catholic Church doesn’t appear to have had much respect for women, and it will take a huge effort to reverse that thinking. Just ask Arts Minister Josepha Madigan.

She was embroiled in controversy some time ago when it was reported in the media that she said Mass one evening in her local church in Dublin, after a no-show by the local priest. That was a bit of an exaggeration because she didn’t actually say Mass.

She was scheduled to do a reading but when she discovered that there was no priest available to say the Mass, she stepped in to say some prayers. Minister Madigan also felt the need to address the issue of women priests. I thought she should have been given a pat on the back for using her initiative but instead she incurred the wrath of Archbishop Diarmaid Martin. He wasn’t happy with Josepha.

You don’t have to be an expert in church affairs to recognise that they are in a bit of bother with a shortage of priests and lower attendance rates. Sunday mornings are a lot different to what they were thirty years ago, and traffic is much quieter at mass time these days since footfall has reduced.

The local church was once a hub of activity at Mass times and not only for religious reasons either. Large groups gathered outside the church to meet the neighbours and catch up on the events of the week. Now they get their news elsewhere and many say that they don’t find what the church has to say is relevant to them anymore.

I understand that because I’m always surprised at how little the services have changed since I was a child. It seems to me that the same prayers have been used in the same sequence for ever.

The priest leads the chants and the congregation responds. The prayers that I learned as a child are still being repeated from memory and the only difference is that there is less Latin in use now. The decades of the rosary are still being recited in unison in a monotone and maybe that’s why the young people don’t buy into it.

The numbers entering religious orders are also falling so there’s clearly a problem. The scandals that have rocked the church over the years haven’t helped and a serious overhaul is required if it is to stop the haemorrhage of church goers.

The recent acknowledgement by Pope Francis, suggests that celibacy may be a part of the problem. Maybe a happily married priest, with a home and a family and all that goes with it, would make religious life a more attractive prospect for many, and solve the problem of frustration that obviously exists for many within the priesthood.

The alternative is to do nothing and allow the churches to go the way of so many rural garda stations, becoming a safe refuge for mice and spiders. Maybe Josepha Madigan has a point about allowing women into the priesthood. They could provide a solution for the future of the Church.

Theologians offer firm opposition to women priests though and argue that in a communion service, the priest represents Jesus and as Jesus was male, only a man can represent Jesus adequately.

Specific Biblical teachings seem to be incompatible with women becoming priests too.  For example, it says that women should remain silent in church and in 1 Timothy, women are told that they may not have authority over a man. Maybe Timothy had his own reasons for trying to silence women back in the day, who knows?

One thing I do know though, is that Timothy would have a few problems if he was around today. If he tried that line with my wife, Tim would hear some choice words and may even require some medical intervention.

The Church is facing a crisis in terms of a shortage of priests and because of the low numbers entering the priesthood something needs to change. Pope Francis has acknowledged this and while he is prepared to discuss the possibility of having married priests, the idea of female priests seems to be a step too far at the moment.

The fact remains though, that the future of the Church is in doubt and it may well be up to women to save the day. A survey carried out in the Kilalla diocese in Mayo earlier this year found that nearly 70 per cent of parishioners backed women being ordained to the priesthood.

Those in favour of female ordination say that women are perfectly capable of doing the job as well as any man and it’s hard to argue with that. Men haven’t made such a great fist of it so far and let’s face it, they need all the help they can get.

It can be a difficult journey at times as we try to navigate our way through the daily stresses and strains of modern living. Just surviving is tough enough, so we shouldn’t be trying to make things more complicated than they already are.

But that’s exactly what we do sometimes. We let small stuff get under our skin and spend too much time getting stressed out about insignificant issues, like what other people are thinking or saying about us.

There’s no shortage of people who are completely intolerant and love to blow things out of proportion because they’ve been offended. Offended to the point of becoming completely outraged.

 Just trying to make a point on social media these days can get you into all kinds of bother. You can easily end up in a war of words with complete strangers, suffering the most horrendous and abusive comments that often descend into pure vulgarity. Trolls appear at the drop of a hat to attack and spread their venom and it doesn’t take much to get them going.

I heard a discussion on the radio in the lead up to Christmas. There was a panel involved and they were talking about how ‘Are you all set for Christmas?’ is one of the most often asked questions at this time of the year. Fair enough, it probably is.

A lady on the panel became very animated on the subject and said she gets very annoyed when people ask her if she’s all set for Christmas? She said her husband makes the dinner and that this particular question might be more appropriate for him. She was offended, and she was deadly serious.

I reckon I have often asked people that question myself and I have been asked it thousands of times too, but I have never taken any notice of it. It’s just like saying hello or passing a comment on the weather.

We often say these things to start a conversation or as a greeting. If I ask you if you are all set for Christmas, it’s not because I really care whether you are or not. I don’t expect you to give me a blow by blow account of how your Christmas preparations are coming along. I don’t want to hear about it because I couldn’t care less. I’m just trying to be polite.

I don’t understand what is so offensive about the question though. There is no hidden meaning in it. I’m not secretly accusing you of being a bad parent, a lousy cook or a bad organiser. I’m not taking notes to compare you with others and I’m not making a list of the ‘World’s worst people who are not all set for Christmas.’

But they’re not alone. There are others who have a problem with the greeting, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Easter” and would prefer us to say, “Happy Holidays” instead. Quite when, where or why that became a problem and started offending our sensitive nature I’m not sure, but Donald Trump is taking credit for tackling the issue.

President Trump took to Twitter to inform us that he has led the charge for people to say the words “Merry Christmas” again, and he’s taking credit for its revival. “People are proud to be saying Merry Christmas again. I am proud to have led the charge against the assault of our cherished and beautiful phrase. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!”

I wasn’t aware that we had stopped saying “Happy Christmas” or that it had fallen out of favour. I hear it being used everywhere during this festive season, so maybe it’s just that the “Let’s ban Merry Christmas” campaign hasn’t reached this side of the Atlantic just yet.

We were a lot more tolerant of opposing views and beliefs one time, but those days would appear to be gone. I was abused online about a piece I had posted on the Internet and the guy wasn’t just unhappy with me, or merely annoyed, he was outraged.

I could sense his anger and I suspect that if he knew where I was living, I might have found the head of a dead horse in my bed.

Another reader challenged him and told him that his comment didn’t make any sense. Then he admitted that he hadn’t read the article but made his mind up based on the headline only. So, even though he had no idea what he was talking about, it didn’t stop him blowing his top.

That’s the kind of nonsense we’re up against and it’s why we shouldn’t take too much notice of it. But a lot of people do take this stuff to heart and in some cases, it can push them over the edge. Youngsters, particularly, take it personally and find it difficult to deal with.

There will always be those who like to get noticed. They’ll moan for the sake of it or because they just want to get some attention. It can be done easily now through Twitter, Facebook, Instagram etc. or they can just phone Joe.

In the old days the outraged would have had to approach you in person to say their piece and it’s a bit more difficult to have-a-go when you’re looking someone in the eye. In the pre-Internet era, they’d have to write a letter, buy a stamp and go to a post box and by the time they had all that done, they’d have forgotten what the problem was.

So maybe the reason for the outrage is simply because we have the means to express it instantly with little effort. I saw a comment somewhere recently that said it was worth keeping in mind that most of the comments about you are made by people sitting on the toilet.

That kind of says it all really.