Silver Spoon.

Her self-entitled tone and dismissiveness bubbled under a quiet voice. She spoke quietly and calmly, but wanted to make a scene. She wanted something she thought she was entitled to. By talking over me, she could convince me that her point of view was the correct one.The flick of her hair in my direction while I was speaking, spoke volumes.

We are one week away from Christmas Day, and the stresses and strains of the festive period are upon us all. How we all cope with the pressure varies from person to person. Some deal with it better than others.

Personally, I think that an awful lot of undue Christmas burden stems from last minute shopping and the expectation of dealing with family and friends. We all go through this, but nothing gives anyone the right to speak down to a stranger - no matter what the time of year is.

Call it age or wisdom, but my tolerance for nonsense has decreased over the past number of years. I keep myself up to date and informed with local, national and world events. I keep abreast of current trends and new technology. I read voraciously and take immense pride in how I do my job. With experience, I think I have become quite skilled in reading body language and spotting the non-verbal communication that speaks loudest.

A couple of nights ago, I was asked to deal with a situation that involved an unhappy young lady. She spoke to my colleagues in a terse and cocky tone, something that you wouldn't normally associate with a girl of her youth. We were trying to solve her issue, but technology was failing us. Her patience was fast running thin and when it did run out, her snobbish attitude moved onto a higher level.

Her conceited and disdainful opinion spoke down to my colleagues. Her self-righteous points of view were correct in her head. She overlapped one hand on top of the other, with her fingers drumming the hand underneath. She stared off into nothing, indicating her annoyance.

Her eyes were filled with contempt, before I even spoke. I introduced myself and shook her hand lightly. Her limp and insincere handshake told me right off that she wasn't interested in anything I had to say. I asked what the problem was and made eye contact. When she did make contact it was telling me of the "torture" she was enduring. I let her finish talking before I addressed her issues.

She interrupted me on multiple occasions. I never showed her that disrespect.

I stated the facts regarding her problems and how we were trying to resolve them. I was honest saying that one of her issues were outside my control and there was nothing I could physically do. She just needed to be patient.

Then she started getting personal, telling me she knew more about my job than I clearly did. She knew about the perks of my job and the begrudgery in her face was evident.

She wasn't listening to my point of view and I knew that. She knew that we were trying our best, but she was so deep into her point of view that admitting she was wrong would have been detrimental to her argument. Her attitude stank to high heaven and she was adamant she was in the right. The people around her were embarrassed by her pompous and patronising demeanour. Their glances simply said "she's an eejit."

In the end, what we did worked and we didn't receive any thanks. Technology came to our aid and we left her well enough alone. Giving her more attention would feed her ego, confirming her beliefs.

As she left our company I sincerely wished her a "Happy Christmas." She looked down her pointy nose at me and gave me a look that may as well have said "you're beneath me."

I was professional and held her stare.

But inside I wanted to shout "Bah Humbug!!!!"

 

Raid.

It was a last minute decision that felt right. Work didn’t need me for the following week and Sarah had the week off. A handful of internet keyboard strokes later and we were going on our summer holidays.

Frantic packing, reorganisation of tasks and madness ensued over the next twelve hours. Family or friends weren’t informed – we didn’t have time. Prioritising the important took its toll as neither of us really slept. Excitement and the potential of forgetting something blindingly obvious played a big part.

Living close to a big airport has benefits – especially when you’re taking a taxi for an early morning flight. You can rise, eat breakfast and then think about ringing for a cab. They’re with you fairly expediently.

The weather outside was dreadful – damp, dank and dark. I’m not sure if the Irish winter weather influenced my spontaneous decision the previous night – but both of us were giggling with excitement since we rose from our king sized bed.

As I closed the front door to our three bedroomed semi-detached home, the taxi beeped its horn rather loudly and impatiently. I don’t think the driver realised that both of us were already outside. I cursed him under my breath, fearing what my neighbours might think of such inconsideration.

The drizzle was causing havoc with Sarah’s straightened hair, so I ushered her into the car while I took care of the bags. He wasn’t getting out of the car to assist. I fumbled around in the dark, trying to locate the release for the boot of the twelve year old grey Japanese import. After almost ten seconds of getting soaked and feeling about for a lock, I heard a manual release unlock from inside the car.

Having placed the two wheelie bags in the boot, I took my rain relief in the front passenger seat. The first thing that greeted me were smart comments.

“Nice of you to join myself and this lovely lady! I hope that you’re not dripping all over my good leather!”

Not being in my usual negative morning humour, I ignored the barb and asked him to drive us to Terminal 2 in Dublin Airport. I could tell that Sarah, without her saying anything, didn’t like our driver. I could always tell by glancing at her facial expressions – she couldn’t hide contempt.

Within one minute, as the freshness of the air the rain brought into the car dissipated, I smelled old musty leather. It wasn’t the seats that we sat upon that stank, but that of the black leather jacket that our driver wore.

It was lived in. I’m not sure if he ever took it off. It had a pungent tinge of stale cigarettes, bad body odour and most importantly, alcohol. It was faint, but I was certain that it was whiskey of some sort. That smell had always stuck with me as my grandfather had a certain fondness for Powers Gold Label.

Having his picture in front of me on the dashboard, I noticed that he had a fine head of hair for a sixty-eight year old man. Something akin to Elvis with the hair slicked back and long, thick salt and pepper sideburns. Except this morning, his hair didn’t look as neatly coiffed as his photo. It was greasier and a bit matted near the base of his mullet. The cloth headrest of his seat told a similar story.

Neither myself nor Sarah entered easily into conversation with our driver, apart from the odd grunt or “yeah”. His negativity was eating fast into our early morning holiday buzz.

My wife is not a patient lady, especially when she’s confronted with ignorance or racism. On this five minute taxi ride, she encountered both. So she let fly with a volley of well informed opinions, telling him that we got a great deal online for a week in the Canary Islands. I smiled to myself as the last couple of minutes to the airport terminal were made in silence.

The fare came to E10.50 and I paid him exactly that. He wasn’t making any moves to help with the bags either – not that I expected it. Sarah was fuming and also a little elated with herself for shutting an ignorant man up.

Trying our best to forget about the ride into the airport, we proceeded into the building to self-check in. As we dropped our bags to the floor, Sarah realised it before I did. She had placed the passports on the table in the hallway – she had reminded me not to forget them.

We had almost an hour and twenty minutes before the flight was due to leave. That was another benefit of living close to an airport – if this type of thing happens, you have a chance to rectify the situation. If you live an hour away, forget about it.

I ran outside the terminal and jumped into the first available taxi. This taxi was modern and smelled fresh in comparison to our previous experience. The driver understood our predicament and drove swiftly in the light morning traffic. He was ultra professional and helpful, stating that he had done the exact same thing only a couple of years ago.

He pulled into our estate and I already had my front door keys in hand. I asked him to turn the car around as I knew where the passports were and would be out within a matter of seconds.

I saw a car similar to the first taxi two doors down, parked on the kerb with its wheels on the grass verge. It was pointed toward the exit of the estate. Its lights were off.

Running up to our front door I noticed that the kitchen light was on at the back of the house. Thinking that Sarah might have left it on by mistake, I quickly disregarded it.

Unlocking the lower front door lock, I saw the shape of the passports on the hall table through the stained glass. I took two quick seconds to step inside the threshold and grab them in my right hand. As I turned to exit, an inherent instinct told me to look up.

I looked toward the kitchen. The sliver of light emanating from the crack in the door revealed the briefest glimpse of a passing man.

With a matted mullet.

He was rifling through the drawers in the kitchen, upturning them onto the floor.

I hadn’t spooked him by opening the door. Retreating outside and closing the door quietly, I took out my phone. I rang the Police directly in Swords, giving them his name and taxi plate – of his piece of shit car.

I had the luxury of watching the Police enter my home, run upstairs and haul his opinionated ass off into custody. I made sure he didn’t spot me – I didn’t want him coming back for more knowing that I’d reported the incident.

The Police unofficially told me that the reason he had broken in was the fact I didn’t bother to tip him.

He had seen how quickly I had exited my front door in the rain and saw that I mistakenly, hadn’t set the alarm. He broke in by slipping through the side gate and kicking in the glass of our back door.

I missed my flight but caught a later one out that afternoon. I had to arrange for an emergency window fitting and made sure I set my alarm before leaving.

An idiot like this wasn’t going to ruin our last minute holiday buzz.

The people I meet everyday.: Meet your idols and say hello.Not many people ha...

The people I meet everyday.: Meet your idols and say hello.

Not many people ha...: Meet your idols and say hello. Not many people have the opportunity to meet their own personal idols. I have had those opportunities. Whet...

Meet your idols and say hello.

Not many people have the opportunity to meet their own personal idols. I have had those opportunities. Whether they are in the sporting or musical world, I've had just about enough confidence to go up to them and say hello. Life is for living - not for regrets.

I've met many famous people, mainly through my work. And the reason I write this blog is because one of my own personal heroes passed away just recently. I was blessed to meet him on more than one occasion and he never disappointed. He was a true gentleman and in the eulogy of his brother Paul - “Tony’s voice was so distinctive that it was more famous than his face.”

That man was Tony Fenton. I first heard his utterly distinctive voice on Sunshine 101. His deep bass voice was probably more resonant than other DJs. His radio show was filled with tunes and music from my teenage years right through to the present day.

Meeting him the first time, I didn't realise who he was until he said "thank you." I did a rapid about turn and asked him if his name was Tony. Being the ever gentleman, he quietly said yes and gave me a look and a nod to say - yes, the surname is Fenton. I was immediately star struck. I couldn't go back near him to be honest. So I did the thing before smartphones and selfies - I asked for his autograph and he kindly obliged. We chatted for a few seconds - I mumbled, while he spoke.

The next time I met him was a few years later. We entered into conversation easily and we chatted about various Irish bands - mainly who were up and coming and showing true promise. He was honest and open in his opinions and chatted and laughed with anyone on the plane. All I remember is that everyone wanted to buy him a Jack Daniels and Coke - he was the kind of guy you wanted to have a drink and a good chat with.


More recently, I had the opportunity to meet a literary hero of mine called John Connolly. John is a world renowned author who has won several literary awards and accolades – and he’s an absolute gentleman. And when I admitted to him that I was a fan of his work, he genuinely blushed.

And that's one of the main reasons I advise you to go up to your own personal idols and heroes and say hello. They are human - just like you. Whether you ask them for a selfie, a proper picture or an old fashioned autograph - they should be flabbergasted and honoured that you've asked for a few seconds of their time - just to spend it with you.


I met Liam Neeson two days after September 11th 2001. He, like everyone else flying at that time, was nervous. A quiet gentleman who gives so much of his own personal time to Unicef - and doesn't look for thanks through the media.

One of my first ever athletic heroes was an Irish legend by the name of Caitriona McKiernan. I genuinely grunted at her, such was my disbelief at meeting her in the flesh. She was effusive and kind with her time - I still have her autograph from 1997. She even edited her best times (in pencil!) on the autographed postcard.

Meeting two living soccer legends doesn't happen every day. When you realise that they are as normal as yourself, you like them even more. I met Robbie Fowler and Steve McManaman two years ago when they were heading back to Liverpool after witnessing the All-Ireland hurling final between Clare and Cork. The final itself was a draw and it was the first time they had seen the game of hurling first hand. They were mightily impressed and were even thinking of coming back for the replay.


When I met Seve Ballesteros in 2004, it was a complete accident. He was so quiet and unassuming, I actually doubted he was sitting in front of me. He spoke with everyone that knew him on the plane - a fabulous representative for the world of golf.

Please remember that if your hero isn't the person you wanted them to be - don't be disheartened. That one individual could be just having an off day. We're all entitled to have one of those every once in a while.

So from that point of view – tell people that have affected your life in a positive way, how they have made your day brighter.

The people I meet everyday.: A Limerick for Harry.On the first cold Monday of...

The people I meet everyday.: A Limerick for Harry.

On the first cold Monday of...: A Limerick for Harry. On the first cold Monday of January, I was woken by my wife, from my reverie. As I lay deep in sleep hugging my...

A Limerick for Harry.

On the first cold Monday of January,

I was woken by my wife, from my reverie.

As I lay deep in sleep hugging my pillow

She simply stated “Get up, Here comes our little fellow!”

Her waters had broken twenty minutes prior,

Yet she applied make-up, remaining calm under fire.

I whizzed around, packing stuff for myself,

Not knowing these items would remain on a shelf.

We had a false start as I pulled the car out,

“The floodgates have opened” she said with a shout.

Once redressed, we drove slowly at speed,

Watching out for any bumps, paying great heed.

Without any change, we stopped at the Port tunnel toll,

Where the man let us through as her fear took hold.

We hit the bump at Beckett Bridge with such surprise,

That it nearly forced baby out, complete with his cries!

Double parked at reception, I left her for a short while,

She was greeted with long plastic sheet and a smile.

She looked at it, not knowing exactly what to do,

Until the receptionist said “Sit on it love – the woman before you used two!”

At six in the morning, she lay on her first bed,

Given the pace of the day, I thought we’d see a head.

But our first nurse simply told us she wasn’t in labour,

And asked if we’d like to come back in later?

The pre-labour ward was full with phones and groans,

Where she quietly said “I feel embarrassed for their moans.

After she consumed her boiled egg, tea and toast,

One hour later she was the one who cried loudest and most!

With increasing pain and strength of contractions,

She got pain relief with horrific reactions.

Under haze of medication came the threat of abuse,

“I hate you - this is all your fault,” she said at first use.

Then came the surprise of which I had not planned,

As she bore down on contraction, she bit a chunk of left hand.

We walked the green mile of hallway to the delivery ward,

Where gas and air would be her reward.

We then moved to the room where baby would be born,

Where light blue tile and old fixtures adorned.

With thrusts and red faces, adding to clan,

Out came baby, according to plan.

With impatience said Mommy “let me see, let me see”,

“Let us meet our nine month prodigy.”

With a voice loud enough, ten fingers and toes,

We named him Harry - with his Daddy’s little nose.