Monthly Archives: October 2025

Thursday Thoughts: A Tribute to Mrs “Bouquet”

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When I turned ten or eleven, my friends started to ring me on occasion at the weekend, on the landline (one of those cream-coloured Eircom phones that had ten buttons on the right-hand side, where you could pre-program your most frequently dialled numbers, then ring them at a single touch of a button. Kids these days just wouldn’t understand that level of sophistication). As my friends rang the house, they would remark afterwards that my mother was “posh”, because she would answer the phone with a jovial “1-2-3-4-5, Una speaking.” They didn’t know any other parent who answered the phone in this way.

Nor did they know anyone who, in the early ‘nineties, made double-baked stuffed potato skins. Or fancy casseroles, beef ‘n’ beer stews, or used fondues or raclettes. I’m cringing as I recall how embarrassed I was that our parents seemed to be the “posh” ones. For God’s sake, we had a patio and a conservatory. This was pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland. We were probably considered the “Bouquets” of our area.

Even the fact that we were able to watch Keeping Up Appearances on BBC1, at a time when many of our friends only had two channels, RTE1 and Network 2, was a kind of snobbery in itself. When other Irish families were watching Glenroe, we sat laughing at Hyacinth Bucket’s (“it’s Bouquet”) misguided attempts at bettering herself, social climbing on a rickety ladder. Patricia Routledge was made for this role. I loved her clumsy displays of social awkwardness, her tireless efforts to invite those she perceived to be of a “higher social standing” to one of her candlelight suppers, and her embarrassment at being related to the plain Daisy and layabout Onslow. Of course, as I grew older, I learned that the Onslows and Daisys of the world, flawed as they were, were far more relatable than the pretentious Hyacinths.

Keeping Up Appearances became one of those things I will forever associate with my childhood and, more specifically, my mother. I remember the warmth I felt inside as I watched Mum watching it, dabbing the tears of laughter away with her hand. Of course, since the early to mid-nineties were simpler times, the whole Sheridan being gay thing went completely over my head (“oh but of course, you and Tarquin must have matching silk pyjamas”), but the bragging over Violet was something I picked up on straightaway (“my sister Violet, the one with the swimming pool, sauna, room for a pony”). 

I think part of the reason why Keeping Up Appearances is so popular is because everybody who watches it can relate to it. We all have a vision of what a perfect family should look like, and we tend to think that other people have their shit together when they do not. Patricia Routledge once said in an interview: “I think great comedy is based on pretension, pretending to be something that you’re not, and the exquisite danger of being found out.”

It is also a reminder that the more we try to maintain a fake outer façade, the more likely it is that façade will fall away. Sometimes, it’s easier to live in a fantasy than face reality; for example, Hyacinth’s father “Daddy”, who clearly has cognitive issues too large for any family to deal with alone, is reduced to an eccentric genius in Hyacinth’s mind, and perhaps this is a coping mechanism for her. Violet tells Hyacinth that she’s thinking of leaving her cross-dressing husband Bruce, and Hyacinth gasps in horror, exclaiming “What about the Mercedes?”

Patricia Routledge passed away on 3 October and with that, she took another small part of our childhood, and our mother with her. I know that this mightn’t make sense to you, dear reader, but it does to me; the end of an era, a bonding ritual with both of our parents that can’t ever be reclaimed. Every time I hear that jaunty theme music, I’m back lying on that mauve sitting room carpet (no dodgy hip back then), with my head in my hands, being brought into an adult world that I otherwise had no interest in, laughing at the futility of pretending to be someone you’re not. 

I recently watched an interview with Routledge on YouTube, dated early ‘nineties, where she remarked that she “gets a bit frightened of [Hyacinth] herself.” Routledge disclosed that while she herself was nothing like Hyacinth, she thoroughly enjoyed playing her, and after all these years, it’s difficult to imagine anyone else in that role.

Thank you, Patricia, for the belly laughs and for reminding us all, that despite appearances, we are all flawed, and delightfully human.

Tuesday Thoughts: Hip Hip Hooray!

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It was during the first Covid lockdown in 2020 when I, like everyone else in the country, decided that I would step up my fitness regime. I started using the treadmill every day, and I ordered the most beautiful looking mountain tricycle from trikes.ie. As time passed, I felt frustrated that I didn’t seem to be getting any fitter. The more I walked and cycled, the more pain I was experiencing in my right leg. Admittedly, I didn’t think much of it at the time. I just put it down to not having cycled properly in years, maybe being a bit rusty. Then in September 2020, I fell backwards while crushing some plastic bottles under my foot for the recycle bin.

For nearly five years, I thought that this was the moment that changed everything dramatically, for the worst. Now, it seems it may have happened long before this, and I didn’t realise it.

As a wobbly walker, I fall over so often that it’s rare that I remember it. My body sports cuts and bruises that I don’t recall acquiring, never mind how I got them. A few weeks after this fall, I realised that the pain wasn’t subsiding, and that it was going up and down my leg. Sometimes, my knee felt like it was giving way below me. Other times, it felt like a trapped nerve. That was the diagnosis the physiotherapist gave me in July 2021: that it was periformis syndrome. Being me, I googled it, and learned that it should ease within a few weeks, provided I adhered to a religious physio regime.

It didn’t ease. In fact, it got worse, and soon I was getting no more than two hours’ sleep a night. The doctor referred me to Tallaght, but the specialist there couldn’t identify the source of the problem. One doctor prodded me in the back, and because I jumped, agreed with the physio that it must be periformis syndrome and nothing could be done, unless…. It was at this stage that I heard the words “pain injection” for the first time. However, getting a steroid injection into your periformis is a risky procedure with no room for error. I didn’t care. This was the end of 2022. I was sent home and was told that they couldn’t find anything wrong.

In July 2021, I was offered the opportunity of a lifetime – I won a place on the Play It Forward Programme, an initiative headed by Skein Press, The Stinging Fly, the Arts Council, and, in my case, Independent Living Movement Ireland through a bequeathment from founding member of the original Center for Independent Living, Declan O’Keeffe. I’d never met Declan, but I felt that I owed him the decency of making the most of this opportunity. Meanwhile, the pain would not abate. I lay awake every night, trying to get comfortable and wondering where I’d gone wrong, both with my body and with my career. I had a fantastic mentor, the talented David Butler, but I just couldn’t manage to put in the work required to complete my novel. Ideally, the end product of the Play It Forward programme for me would have been a bestselling debut, but obviously this wasn’t the case.

Every day, I scolded myself for wasting such a wonderful opportunity. I didn’t make the most of it, and it is only now that I accept that this was because I couldn’t, not because of laziness. I considered emailing everyone involved in my bursary award and apoIogising for squandering their money, but I knew that emotion was clouding my judgement. Instead, I went to the doctor and told her that I was having non-stop pain and depressive thoughts. The doctor explained that sometimes mental illnesses can manifest in physical ways. I wanted to scream. 

This was January 2024. I had been in a depression spiral since September 2023. I was exhausted and paralysed by a pervasive sense of failure. I didn’t recognise myself. I withdrew from disability activism. I got some proofreading and editing jobs during this time, but not enough to earn a living. I stopped texting and calling friends, though some particular friends refused to be pushed away. The week before my daughter’s confirmation, I went to my doctor and told her that I was having dark thoughts and that I didn’t think I could carry on. She prescribed Sertraline, which I never took.

I never took it because I knew that it was the pain that was messing with my head. It was ruining my life. All I seemed to do was complain, and I was so sick of it.  As I grew more tired, I felt more useless, like I was a burden on those who loved me. I was too tired during the day to write, or to find work, or do anything other than scroll or watch nonsense on YouTube. Taskmaster became my comfort blanket. This is coming from someone who once would rather read or listen to radio or do anything other than sit and watch a TV programme.

In February 2024, still on a crusade for answers, I went to Neurology in Naas hospital, where the doctor there again gave me hope that I could get a pain injection into the periformis and made a referral to have it done.  I should point out that, at this stage, I’d only had a back x-ray, which showed up no abnormalities. We were planning on going to Australia in July 2024, and I wanted desperately to be able to enjoy it pain free. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be, as I’ve written before. On 7 June 2024, we travelled to Tallaght and I was all ready for my injection, only to be told (a) that they couldn’t find my sciatic nerve, or any sign of damage, on the scan and (b) that they thought my pain was likely the result of a “contusion”.


i.e. That they thought it was impact pain from the fall, that I’d had four years previous.

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

I really thought I was going mad. We went to Australia, and I relied heavily on painkillers and my TENS machine to get me through the trip. I couldn’t even walk around my sister’s bungalow; I needed the manual chair. I was so tired and frustrated. When we came home, I slid back into the Netflix binges, completely exhausted. Was this my life now, at the age of forty? No job, no prospects, a life overshadowed by tiredness and pain? What was the point of getting (two) university qualifications, and all those writing courses I’d done since 2014, if I couldn’t use them to build a career?

In January 2025, I rejoined Writer’s Ink, an online writers group spearheaded by bestselling author Sam Blake (Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin) and coaching guru Maria McHale, and I revisited my novel, once again fantasising about how the world needs to hear Rachel’s story. At first, things went well. I did a prompt exercise every day and before long I was discussing my would-be novel with literary agent, Simon Trewin, who seemed impressed. However, by April, I was exhausted again, struggling to get to the end of the day. Another frustrated visit to the doctor, another set of blood tests that showed everything was normal.

“Come back in,” the doctor said. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”

She was taking me seriously, possibly sick of my constant complaining. She brought up my files, and we went through the absolute shitshow that has been the last five years, going through the letters from the consultants, the lack of findings. Suddenly, she frowned at the screen.

“You’ve had a back x-ray. Have they ever x-rayed your hip?”

My hip? No.

“Okay, let’s do that next.”

I duly attended the  “urgent” x-ray appointment, feeling I was wasting my time. A couple of days later, my doctor’s number flashed across the screen.

“It’s your hip.” She was excited. “Significant arthritis. It’s very shallow, by all accounts. I’d say you’re looking at a replacement.”

This was the 22nd April of this year. Nearly five years of looking for answers. And although it didn’t feel like it at the time, it was possibly the best birthday present I’d ever been given. I wasn’t going mad. I wasn’t a hypochondriac. I was suffering – and I use this word deliberately – from arthritis. Five years on, I finally had an answer.

Since that phone call, my life has changed so much. I now go easier on myself, knowing that I will have good days and bad. Not only am I paying more attention to my body, I know what exercises I have to do, how to look after myself properly. In June, once the reality of what lies ahead sunk in, I went back to the doctor to discuss my long-term options.

I need to be a good mum and wife. I need to get back to work. What way should we approach this?

She arranged an urgent appointment with an orthopaedic surgeon. When the appointment came in, my husband and I were stunned.

“Surgery,” he said. “That’s where we are now, and what you’ve fought for.”

I dismissed his words with a wave of my hand. “It won’t come to that.”

My dear reader, as it turns out, it may well come to that. On 4th September 2025, I foolishly attended the appointment alone, reasoning that I would be perceived more capable and confident if I asked the questions. And I was right, but the news landed like a lead brick. After half an hour’s discussion with the surgeon, during which he went through my symptoms and x-ray in detail, he handed me a leaflet – What You Should Know About Hip Replacements.

He said that although wear and tear might be a factor, my hip has possibly always been shallow and that many people (not just wobblies) have it and only discover that they have it when it plays up in their forties. He said that he has replaced the hips of at least four CPers. Best of all, he said that he would attempt a pain injection into my hip. Not just to give me relief, but also as confirmation that the hip was the cause of my pain, before cutting me open.

“Oh God,” I said. “Don’t dangle the dream. I’ve been here before.” I explained my journey so far, but he was confident he’d be able to do it.

He was right.

On Friday 17th October, with the help of an amazing medical team, I finally received a pain injection into my hip. It was relatively straightforward: I lay still enough, and the procedure took ten minutes. I burst into tears, because I felt so proud of myself for not giving up and persisting in finding the answers. I won’t know for sure until the end of the week if it has worked, but I do feel some relief already. I’ve had four good nights’ sleep – apparently, I didn’t hear Rupert barking the other night, which feels wrong – I always am the one to hear him and let him out. Last night, I was doing a crossword puzzle in bed, and I sat with my knees up and the book resting on them. John Paul remarked that I haven’t sat like that in years. Today is Tuesday, and I feel exhausted, five years of sleepless nights catching up on me. But I’m not in pain. It feels like being on holiday from my own body.

I know I shouldn’t get too excited. After all, it’s still early days and this injection mightn’t work long-term. And if I do need a replacement, recovery will be long and arduous. But for the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful that I can get back to myself and to who I was before all of this started. 

I suppose I’m sharing this for two reasons. First, to apologise to the many people I’ve lost track of in the last five years, and to offer an explanation – not an excuse. Second, to give anyone who finds themselves in the same position some hope. I believe you. Please don’t stop looking for answers. I offer you love and light xx

Tuesday Thoughts – Budget 2025: A Reflection

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October is a reflective time for me. It’s bookended by my father-in-law’s anniversary on the first day of the month, and my granny Maye’s anniversary on Halloween night. Sandwiched in between is Martin Naughton’s anniversary. Regular readers of this blog should be familiar with Martin by now; he is considered the Father of the Independent Living Movement in Ireland. Next Monday, 13 October will mark his ninth year “away from home”, and he is still sorely missed, both in the capacity of being the forefront figure of the movement, and as a comrade and friend.

Martin came to mind this morning as I read the paper this morning on Budget Day. I have vague memories from my youthful twenties of Budget Day being an event that people got excited about. Now, it’s a day filled with dread, the ghosts of the 2008 recession continuing to haunt us. In 2012, then Health Minister James Reilly announced a sweeping cut in funds of €10m to the Personal Assistant Service. It was salvaged by the actions of a group called the Leaders Alliance, headed by Eugene Callan and included many disabled activists, too many of whom have also since passed away, who slept outside the Dail for three nights in protest. Leigh Gath told the media: “We’re often seen as the most vulnerable targets, but after today and however much longer we have to stay here, maybe that will change.”

Irish disability history was made that on 5 September 2012, when the government announced that they were rowing back on the inhumane and savage cuts, but the threat still lingers over disability services, Personal Assistance in particular. 

Back in 2025, I read in the Irish Independent this morning that “disability services will be a central part of the budget.” It goes on to state that “this will be used for more staff, more residential places, more adult day places and make some contribution towards assessment of needs.” This is great news for many families who are under strain, but I’m sceptical as to whether there’s any great demand for adult day places or residential places among disabled people themselves.

I accept that there are some disabled people who enjoy the camaraderie of attending day services, who love meeting their peers and who love going on day trips to places away from their families. I appreciate that for many accessing respite services that it allows them a level of freedom that they may not enjoy at home. However, it is crucial that disabled people themselves are holding the reigns of control over their own lives, that they themselves are demanding and designing the services that will enable them to get the most from their lives.

In my experience, and from talking to other people, the Personal Assistant Service is the one service that offers personal freedom and choice. It allows people to study, work, and to participate in society as contributors and consumers.  In its purest form, it lends people more choice and control over their own lives – to do whatever the hell they want, whenever they want. Honestly, it’s been over ten years since I felt this way about my Personal Assistant Service, and I know I’m not alone in this.

Since the cutbacks were supposedly reversed in 2012 – nearly thirteen years ago – advocates for independent living and disability (human) rights have had the frustrating job of having to educate the government, service providers and disabled persons themselves about the philosophy of independent living and the importance of adopting a human rights approach. That means enjoying a standard of life that our non-disabled peers might take for granted: living in our own homes, perhaps with a partner or a family; engaging in meaningful employment or educational opportunities; availing of social outlets or even going travelling. It seems that every time disabled people win the right to do these things, another cutback or legislative loophole pulls the rug from under our feet.

Luckily, however, we are, in theory, in a better position to push for an acceptable standard of living than we were in September 2012. The UN Convention on the Rights of People with Disabilities (UNCRPD) was ratified in 2018, and the monitoring/advisory body was established by the Irish Human Rights and Equality Commission (IHREC) by the end of that year. Around the same time, Independent Living Movement Ireland (ILMI) launched its #PASNow campaign, urging county councils to vote in favour of legislating the Personal Assistant Service, thus enshrining the right to Independent Living in Irish Law. Most recently, the publication of the National Human Rights Strategy for Disabled People 2025-2030 marks a vital shift in the State’s obligation to treat the barriers to inclusion that disabled people face as serious violations of their human rights.

Legislating for Personal Assistance Services in Ireland is a matter of urgency. Currently, PA hours are distributed, primarily by the HSE, in accordance with perceived need. It is not enough for anyone to be assisted out of bed, often at a time that does not suit the individual, and to be put back into bed at the end of a day. Humans need to feel a sense of purpose, a desire to fulfil their potential, and disabled people are no different. When a disabled person is denied access to the services they want as well as need (because, to paraphrase the great Martin Naughton, we should be able to do what we want as well as what we need),that person is at risk of isolation, of developing mental health problems, of never truly being recognised as an equal in Irish society.

Des Kenny said in Conversations about Activism and Change that while changes for the better are happening, overall, our progression towards equality is painfully slow. I know we have to look at the bigger picture, but I cannot help but feel frustrated that many who have fought battles in the name of achieving equity for disabled people have since passed, far too soon. The National Human Rights Strategy was a monumental achievement for disabled people. Now, our government much work to ensure that the strategy is implemented in our everyday lives. We are worth the investment, in every sense of the word.

As I said, October is a reflective time for me. I’ve now been blogging about disability rights for over eleven years. Am I still going to be writing the same things in another ten years’ time? God, I really hope not.