Learning to Love Ireland by Althea Farren Page B

missing out. We’d forgotten what ‘normality’ entailed. When we finally started to listen, a host of voices suddenly entered our lives, presenting a cross-section of opinions on news, current affairs, the economy, the weather, culture, sport and every conceivable subject known to man.
    First thing in the morning, we’d awaken to Newstalk’s ‘Breakfast Show’. Then on the way to work, I’d listen to RTÉ Radio 1’s ‘Morning Ireland’. On the way home, I’d be entertained by ‘Drivetime with Mary Wilson’. Journeys to and from work were always stimulating.
    I’d find myself smiling as I listened to the description of an ostentatious gravestone that was so large that a special crane was hired to lift it into position. There’d been complaints that it not only dwarfed adjacent graves but even posed a potential safety risk.
    On another occasion, listeners were invited to describe the size of potholes they’d encountered. We knew that potholes on Zimbabwe’s roads were much bigger and that there were more of them...
    Two guys are travelling along the Gwanda road in their twin cab. One of the potholes they approach looks even bigger than the rest. The passenger says to the driver, ‘Shit, Gavin, there’s a rabbit in there – but it’s so deep, you can only see his ears.’
    The driver slows down and peers through the window. ‘It’s not a rabbit, man. It’s a bloody giraffe...’
    I loved Joseph O’Connor’s humorous verses on life and living in Ireland, and thought an eloquent tribute he composed for his step-mother’s birthday was remarkable. I laughed at his discourses on the use of the word ‘like’ and on the expression ‘going forward’, used so often by politicians, economists and sports commentators. It was useful to be able to anticipate road conditions, to know where road works were and when an accident had caused a temporary diversion.
    In October, ‘Drivetime’ ran one of its regular competitions. Entrants had to imagine that they were the newly-elected president of the United States. They were to pay tribute in their acceptance speech to the losing candidate in no more than 40 words. They could be either Barack Obama or John McCain... The prize was a trip for two to Orlando.
    Just for a laugh, I asked Larry to give it a go. He entered the following:
    From John McCain:
    Friends, and you, too, young Barak Obama, this is it! We shot the moose, we bagged the polar bears, we clubbed the fucking seals to death and now we’ve won the White House. There must be a God out there.
    From Barack Obama:
    Fellow Americans, thank you for electing me your President. I will always be in your debt – and in yours, John, and yours, too, Sarah. I couldn’t have done it without you. You have truly served your country. God bless America.
    We’d generously forgiven Obama for ruining Hillary’s presidential bid, and were hoping that he would make it all the way to the White House.
    In January I had one of my skin cancer appointments at St Vincent’s in Dublin, so we decided to spend the morning at the National Gallery. I’d been fascinated to hear about the Vaughan Bequest of watercolours by JMW Turner – the exhibition was on view for the month of January only. Why only in January? The lady being interviewed on RTÉ Radio 1 explained that Henry Vaughan was very concerned about the precious watercolours fading. So much so, that he’d stipulated that the collections he bequeathed to the National Galleries of Ireland and Scotland should be publicly exhibited for one month of the year only. And January was ‘perhaps the most sunless of the whole twelve’.
    This was our second visit to the gallery. The Turner collection was fascinating and beautifully displayed. I particularly liked his ‘Beech Trees at Norbury Park’.
    The strong faces in Sean