He shoved £300 into my pocket, just before I walked through airport security. A huge amount of money at the time, for a girl like me.

“It’s mad money”, he lilted in his West Cork accent, trying to hide his tear-filled eyes with a smile. His quivering chin was in opposition with the sides of his mouth, as they tried to curl upwards. His cheeks were moist, misted over with nerves and perspiration and a little bit of pride, I suppose. He took out his hanky and pretended to clean his glasses.

I gazed at him lovingly, noticing my friends in a fuzzy scene behind him, a bit like portrait mode on an iPhone these days. All of them jumping up and down, waving, crying, holding each other’s hands. I can still recall that snap-shot.

“You better come back, ye mad yoke”, one said.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Laughter echoed around the terminal.

It was August 18th, 1993, and I was heading off to San Francisco, having won the green card in the lottery. At 22 years old, I was barely a proper grown up. I came home one day and told my parents I was gay. It didn’t go over well.

“You’re not gay”, my mother said, “that’s just another one of your phases”, she said. “Wait until your father hears this!”, making herself a hot whiskey in our little North County Dublin kitchen. “And by the way”, she nervously poised the question, “what do you DO?” But that’s another story for another day.

She wasn’t far wrong. My father hated it. Sure, it was still illegal at the time.

“You’ll never survive in this country”, he said. “It’s not accepted here, you’ll have to go”, his instinctive protection mode taking over. I wondered if he was embarrassed. Or ashamed. I knew I’d broken his heart. His only daughter. I watched him get redder in the face as he dialled the number on our white rotary phone. His finger angrily pressed into each digit on the circular pad, the zeros taking far too long to spin back to the start. Gripping the long spiral chord, as if grabbing it harder would make my gayness go away, he spent hours trying to find out how I could apply for the Green Card. To go away. To go to America.

And I won it. Nine months later, I was standing at the airport, saying goodbye to everyone. My friends. My Dublin. My mam. My dad.

He was 51 at the time. I’m 55 now, some thirty three years later. Why did he seem so old? I don’t feel old.

I toured the earth as a fledgling adult. Blossoming into my late twenties, I roamed America, soaking up 23 states. As my body aged, so did my mind, guiding me into an experienced thirty-something. Experienced in what? In travel? In life?

I came home once a year for 22 years. Dad visited me too, at the start, when he could. In Boston. Then New York. Then California. His gentle voice always guided me to do the right thing. To make the right choices. I’d often ring home, forgetting the time zone and he’d answer. “How much do you need?”, laughing as he spoke. I was still his little girl.

He died when I was 37. The hole he left in me gets smaller, but at times it penetrates so much deeper.

I’d give anything to see him again. He’d be 84 this year. On Father’s Day, I’d bring him out for dinner here in Malahide. That’s where I live now. And he could eat anything he wanted. And I’d take out a bunch of Euros to pay for it. I’d look at him and smile at his hesitation.

“It’s mad-money, dad”, I’d say.

And he’d look at me again. His eyes might mist over and I’d wonder if he was proud.

“I’m very proud of you”, he’d say, cleaning his glasses with his hanky.

All these questions, I hear you say! We don’t want to answer your questions, Orla, we want to read about stuff. Interesting stuff!

Okay, okay. I’m going to tell you a little story about my humble pie, and how I am very happy to eat it. And how I’m also very happy to eat the cheesecake too.

I’m 53. I used to be 48. And before that I was 22. And at age 22 and age 48, I was REALLY GOOD at being a squash player. At 22, I was on the professional tour, having the time of my life, not doing particularly well but I was enjoying life. I wasn’t making millions. But I was touring the world, making some money, and feeling good about myself.

At 48, after a long squash coaching career in the US, I returned to Ireland and decided I wanted to compete again. So, I got fit. And I trained. And I represented Ireland at the European Team Championships in 2019. I was the oldest player on the team – my team-mates were young enough to be my own children. And the same year, I won the European Masters Over 45 Champions. For a while, I was number one in Europe. I didn’t lose a match for years in my age division.

Sure I was only delighted with myself.

And then Covid hit and I stopped training and playing because I couldn’t go to the gym or the squash courts (what a terrible excuse!), and I began writing. And while I was writing, I was sitting, and while I was writing and sitting, I was eating. And while I was writing and sitting and eating, my body was aging and becoming less flexible and less mobile. And before I knew it, I had gained 20 lbs. And as luck would have it, I turned 50 which was right around the time lady peri-menopause came knocking. Her, with her hot flushes and crankiness. Her, with her bloatedness and forgetfulness. The nerve of her making me pee when I skipped or coughed. Honestly, she’d an awful cheek just showing up like that. I had to start performing pelvic floor exercises on a regular basis. Luckily, they were the kind that I was able to do while I was writing and sitting and eating.

But at the same time as all the writing, sitting, eating and getting flabby…. I also felt happy. Dare I say it? YES! I was doing other things that didn’t require me to sit on a spin-bike or lift really heavy things causing me to grunt in a most un-lady-like way. I was doing stand-up comedy, I was hosting award ceremonies, I was speaking out loud. And I loved it.

During this time, I picked up another lovely gem, called Lupus. Ah sure it was grand. Just some really pink cheeks, and incredible pain in my joints. And tiredness. A lot of that. Nothing to complain about really…But I did need medication which meant a ‘you might put on weight’ side-affect.

So, all the laughs and kegels and the stories and the pains and the snoozes very sneakily took up about 3 years of my life.

Last year, in November of 2024, I had a bad bout of lupus shortly after I’d recovered from my third dose of Covid-19. Between one thing and another, I felt like I was hitting a wall, quite literally. Physically I felt ‘old’. And I became complacent and fed up. Not an ounce of motivation to be had. In December, I made the decision to rest and find a way to feel good about myself again. There were things triggering my lupus which, (according to Dr. Google) included the use of HRT, consumption of gluten, and lactose. Now, I don’t do things by halves so I cut out alcohol (thank god it’s February again!). Actually, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I didn’t miss drinking a bottle of prosecco every evening. I cut out lactose. I cut out gluten. And I cut out HRT*.

And I started feeling better after about 3 weeks. In mid-January, my wife Annabelle played in a master’s squash tournament in Cork, but I just watched, vicariously living through her. I envied her running around the court. I love the camaraderie at these squash tournaments. I may be older and rounder but I’ve never lost my ability to be delightfully inappropriate at these events. (Or at ANY event for that matter). I have a tendency to say what most people are usually thinking, but wouldn’t dream of saying out loud. There’s always one!

Anyway, I’m rambling a bit now. We want to know about the humble pie! I hear you say.

I couldn’t stand it any longer and chose to play in a squash tournament last weekend in Galway. There were 120 competitors playing in all age categories from over 35’s to over 70’s. There were only five women in my age category of the over 50’s. And I came paddy last. Yes, I did, including losing to my wife (that’s a whole other story – the joys and traumas of competing against one’s partner).

It was a new and strange feeling for me to finish last. 20 years ago, ah who am I kidding, 5 years ago, I would NOT have been happy at all about this. Not one bit. It provided a very interesting insight into myself. I didn’t actually mind losing. And here’s why:

1. It’s just a game. Is it really that important at my age to keep winning?

2. I got more exercise last weekend than I have in two months.

3. I AM ALIVE

4. I didn’t have to referee the next match, as ‘losers’ don’t need to ref.

5. I AM ALIVE

6. I am now motivated than ever to improve my fitness and become a better player than I am now. Not because I want to win again, but because I know what I’m capable of, and just because I’m 53, doesn’t mean I’m dead.

In fact, I am NOT dead. I am very, very alive, and how lucky I am! So many friends and family have passed away, particularly over the last five years, and I am counting my blessings to still be here.

So, to conclude my drivel, I am happily eating that humble pie of being paddy last, when I was so used to being the best in my age group. And while I start to increase my fitness levels, I am both grateful that I CAN, and also acutely aware that to starve myself of ANY form of pie, is simply ridiculous. Everything in moderation.

So, as I continue to say…

Buy the Shoes.

Eat the Pie.

Are YOU 53?

Well, so am I

Thank you for reading!

*Regarding quitting HRT, that’s probably not a wise thing to do cold turkey. Please consult your doctor first!

When I lived in California for ten years, I became accustomed to the balmy 68 -72-degree Fahrenheit climate all year round. Rarely did it get cold enough that I had to swap out my favourite blue and yellow flip flops, for my fuzzy orange slippers. Open toed shoes were a must in this environment. Christmas time in Santa Barbara, situated where the Pacific Ocean meets the majestic Santa Ynez mountains, meant that we would participate in the ‘annual polar bear dip’ on Christmas morning. Only the bravest of the brave would venture out into the waters on a sunny but chilly day. The air temperature may have dropped to 55 degrees (that’s about 12 degrees Celsius). And my body, which had clearly adjusted to the local weather, thought that was bloody cold.

What a stark difference it was for me when I moved back to my hometown of Portmarnock in 2015 to discover that there was a whole new breed of sea-swimmers taking over the beaches at ungodly times of the day when most of us are still fast asleep. I have fond memories of Christmas mornings in the 70’s and 80’s when my cousins and I would jump off High Rock in freezing temperatures. Okay, I’m lying. I NEVER did that. I couldn’t even swim. But it was a family tradition that I enjoyed watching from afar wrapped up in an anorak and mittens. Sipping soup from a breakable flask and fancying myself as a smoker, I blew puffs of warm air into the atmosphere, watching my breath floating away. It was the same every year, always followed by mass, then unwrapping presents, then Christmas dinner, then strolls around the neighbourhood to work off the turkey, then a nap, and then games of computer battleship (the non-computerized version) or cards, or monopoly, or Cluedo. How simple our lives were!

Nowadays, I have so much respect for Irish sea swimmers, a community of absolutely insane, fabulous people. There were always the few crazies, when we were kids, and we’d see them running in for a dip in the middle of winter, and we’d say ‘ah screw loose and all that’…but then suddenly Covid hit and it’s as if they started germinating at a rate of knots. They’re everywhere. And they’re the happiest bunch of people I know. Earlier this year, I took the plunge – pun intended – when I visited friends in West Cork, and on a cool spring day, I waded carefully and apprehensively into the sea at the back of the Tin Pub in Ahakista. My God! It was invigorating. Getting in was the hard part. The only reason we came out, was because we were looking forward to a creamy pint of Guinness, otherwise I’m certain we would have stayed in longer. It was glorious.

Living in Prague for the last four years, I have been lucky enough to experience seasons again. Spring came late this year, but still armed with cherry blossoms. Lined with trees on both sides, the streets were flooded with pinks and purples, greeting us with colourful eruptions as we strolled carefully across the cobble stones.

Summer was disappointing at first, but at least we had a summer to be disappointed with. Hot rainy days, meant staying indoors with the windows open. As my Nana Byrne used to say ‘isn’t it great love-making weather?’ The heatwave came in August which meant countless nights spent sleeping on our rooftop, gazing at the blanket of stars above, our faces caressed by a soft warm breeze until the sun came up and I was gagging for my coffee.

The last few weeks the universe has treated us to oranges and browns and yellows, adorning those cobblestone pavements with leaves that crunch beneath our feet as we skip through the parks. Okay, we don’t skip, we might hurt ourselves, but we’ll happily ‘fast-walk’ through the golden piles which nature has unsurprisingly presented us with. At this time of year, I can’t help but reminisce about my time in Massachusetts when the leaves changed practically overnight. Memories of psychiatric wards, squash tournaments, and long-lived friends pop into my mind.

Pretty soon, we’ll get the frost. Delicate snowflakes will land on our noses and eyelashes, and we (okay just me) will make snow angels and smile and feel happy on the inside because I LOVE CHRISTMAS.

As much as I enjoyed basking in the warmth of those California rays, I did miss the changes that come with European living. I believe that we humans are like the seasons too. Some of us are like Californians, with a consistent temperature and mood. Stable, with no surprises. And some of us are like the four seasons, changing all the time from one beautiful state to another. Sometimes we are quiet and need alone time, sometimes we are alive and full of sunshine and bubbles, sometimes we run naked in the snow laughing at the top of our lungs (although that did lead to trouble once, I’m not going to lie). Sometimes we simply lie back behind the scenes, basking in the glory of our loved one’s successes.

There’s so much beauty in the seasons. There’s so much beauty in humans. We are all made up of all of the seasons, and depending who we are, some come through a little louder than the others. Sometimes, we roar through life like a clap of thunder, flashing our bits for the world to see! Sometimes, we fall behind, desperately trying to keep up with the storm. And it doesn’t matter when or how and why.

I have a challenge for you. Re-invent yourselves in some way in 2025. Do something you’ve always wanted to do, but been scared to do. Perhaps because you have become too accustomed to certain ways of living, too comfortable in your surroundings, or too afraid of what others might think should you step out of the box. Whether you are a babbler of stories or a keeper of secrets, you are unique. Own your authenticity and be whatever season you want to be. Embrace all your differences and accept that you are always changing.

Guess what I’m going to do? You got it right in one! I’m going to jump off high rock into a freezing cold Irish sea. Okay, maybe I’ll start small and walk in first. Have a wonderful October.

It’s safe to say I inherited sarcasm from my dad, and large doses of mischief from my mam. This story will shed some light on the latter.  Her little head appeared through the EXIT ONLY door, lower than usual, as she was wheeled out by a unusually handsome disability assistance staff-member.  His bright yellow vest distracted me from my mom’s sheepish grin, (or maybe it was the gold teeth that twinkled when he smiled).

-         Orla, I’ve got a story for you, she said reaching up for a hug.

-         I can’t wait to hear mam, I said, shaking hands with the hunky wheelchair man, and grabbing onto her suitcase.

-         This is Henry, she said. He knows what happened.

-         Hi Henry, thanks for taking care of her, hope she wasn’t too much trouble now, I laughed, anticipating a backhand from my mother.

-         I’m never any trouble. I was no trouble, was I Henry? she flirted. She was actually flirting.

-         She is no trouble, he spoke in broken English, but she DOES have a good story. I’ve become so accustomed to the Czech accent now, after four years of living in Prague. The cadence can sometimes be harsh, but I’ve learned to depend on it weirdly.

-         Dekuyi Moc, I replied (meaning thank you very much) in my overt north Dublin accent. I wondered if he thought the same of my awful intonations.

-         Orla, I’m scalded, she said.

-         Scalded?

-         Yes Orla, Scalded. Wait’ll I tell you what happened on the plane.

Bracing myself, I had a mix of concern for the possibility that she had in fact been burnt by something, and a sense of curiosity about what had really gone on. Like me, my mam is prone to telling a good yarn. And she seemed happy enough, standing up out of the wheelchair, grabbing her stick and shuffling along beside me, linking my arm for extra support.

The disability assistance service provided by most airlines these days is fantastic. Mam can get around no problem, but she is slow moving. We all know the hustle and bustle required to get through airports these days, not to mention that a woman’s average daily step requirement will easily be fulfilled walking to the gate. So it is a very handy little service we use now for my mum whenever she feels like jet-setting off. They carry her suitcase too, and even stop off in duty free if she likes.

-         Go on so, tell me what happened, I could sense she was dying to tell me.

-         Well, I had a lovely seat. 7D, in the aisle, and there was a lovely girl in the window and no-one in between us. My mother always likes to set the scene before launching into the beef of the story.

-         Yes.

-         And of course, I said to myself, I’ll order a cup of tea and have a little sandwich. Sure aren’t I on my holidays, I said.

-         Yes, I said, imagining where this was going.

-         Well, she said, Just as I was taking out my card to pay, didn’t I knock the boiling water and tea-bag all over myself.

-         Ouch! Mam!!, I could almost feel the sting she’d felt.

-         Look at me, I’m scalded. It’s all over my blouse and my jeans and it’s in me knickers and up my bum and everything, she proceeded to show me her tea-stained attire.

-         Jesus Christ, are you okay?

-         I’m okay now, but wait’ll I tell you about Agata.

At this point, we’d stopped for a rest by the airport exit. Annabelle joined us having just parked the car.  My mum LOVES Annabelle and always seems to forget I’m in the room, just for a second, when she sees her. I can’t really blame her. Annabelle IS lovely.

-         Annabelle, how ARE YOU? mam hugged her tightly.

-         She’s scalded, I said

-         She’s what? remarked Annabelle. Now, my family and I do enjoy teasing her that English is not really her first language (it IS), and I figured she wouldn’t have heard the Dublin accentuated term ‘SCALDED’ before. (She hadn’t)

-         I’m burnt. The tea spilled all over me.

-         Scalded, I repeated.

-         Oh Physsie, are you okay? Annabelles gentle Maltese tones were soothing.

-         It’s all over her shirt, her trousers, her knickers, I said.

-         But Agata was gorgeous, she really was. It was my own fault. My mam was now linking Annabelle as they continued to shuffle towards the car. I held back a minute to observe the light brown stain on the back of her jeans.

-         Agata?, I caught up to them.

-         Oh yes. She took me straight to the toilet and I had to pull down my trousers really quickly. She put this burn gel all over my legs. Wait’ll I show you!”, mam was animated now. Almost proud of what had happened.

-         Did you yell out in pain? Annabelle asked, clearly confused by the relaxed delivery of a terrible story.

-         Well, I didn’t want to make a fuss, she said, so I kept it inside you know? I wanted to scream. But then Agata was right there and she was lovely.

-         So what happened then? Did she take off your trousers? I asked

-         Well, luckily we wiped it all off and it was only the inside of my leg that was burnt, so she put more gel on it, and then wrapped it up in a bandage.

- I didn’t want Agata to see my ‘bits’, but she said she had the same bits as me so I shouldn’t worry!

-         This sounds terrible! Annabelle was traumatised.

-         Oh no it was grand. I sat on the toilet for the whole flight Orla.

-         WHAT?

-         Yes, well my jeans were around my ankles and Agata had to keep re-applying the burn gel. So she brought me a cup of tea.

-         Into the toilet?

-         Yes. It was lovely. They wiped down the whole place and I sat there drinking my tea. They closed off the toilet Orla. Even the captain had to use the one at the back. Mam was SO PROUD!

-         Was the door closed, mam? I had visions of my mother sitting on a toilet seat in a very confined space, drinking her tea.

-         No, Agata left the door open a bit, and she was checking on me all the time and no-one was allowed to use it. And then her supervisor, oh what was his name? A lovely little man, I’d say he was gay as Christmas (my mother has no filters) he had a little swish, you know? He brought me a sandwich!

-         You had a sandwich in the toilet?

-         Yes! It was lovely. Ham and cheese croissant.

-         You had a cup of tea and a sandwich sitting in the toilet with your trousers down? I asked.

-         At 36,000 feet, Annabelle inserted.

At this stage, I couldn’t help but chuckle. My mam had just been burnt by a boiling cup of tea and was relaying the story with animation and positivity, not complaining at all, just complimenting the staff aboard the Aer Lingus flight.

I’ve noticed a fantastic shift in my mom lately. She’s had one hell of a year. A heart-attack just before her 80^th birthday in April forced her into hospital for an extended stay of 6 weeks. But since then, she has developed a wonderful outlook. She is living in every single moment. Whether she’s visiting her own friends for tea and cake (she’s had to cut back mind you), or bringing thank you presents to the local pharmacist - oh he’s so quick with filling my prescriptions, Orla (that’s his job mam) or lighting a candle for our cat who had an eye infection, she is bubbling with mischief and joie de vivre.

-         I told Agata that my daughter would write a story about this, she finally said when I got her home.

Examining her burns, and reapplying some gel, I noticed how soft her skin was, and how gentle her gaze became as I put stain-remover on her blouse.

-         You’ve grown up Orla, she said, almost surprised.

-         Not yet mam, I laughed. Let’s not get carried away.

-         I suppose you’re right, she said. But aren’t you glad I got you a story to write?

-         I’m delighted mam. You’ve always been very kind to me.

If your mam is still alive and you have an opportunity to give her a hug, do it! Tell her how much you love her and appreciate her. If you’ve lost your mam, then think of your most favourite memory or memories with her.  They do live on in our minds. Our thoughts keep them alive.

Mam had a brilliant stay here in Prague with us. There are lots of other stories that can be told later. After four laughter-filled days, I dropped her off at Vaclav airport where a giant of a man named George picked her up. He had a yellow vest too, no gold tooth, but a massive laugh. As he pushed her through security, I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude. Fighting back the tears, I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

A few minutes later I got a text:

-         Orla, George is gorgeous. He’s after stopping in duty free so I could buy some of those liquors, and then we had a lovely cup of tea, followed by multiple emojis.

-         She’ll be grand, Annabelle is learning the lingo fast. She’s living in the moment. We can all learn from that.

In the distance, we could hear loud laughter from a group of young women. They were howling, doubled over with guffaws as one raised a sign 'Come back soon ya hookers!' The Irish girls who'd arrived four days earlier, clearly had a wild time as porns stars in Prague.

During my time in the United States, I spent 15 years coaching at summer squash camps for kids, in New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Santa Barbara. As I aged and gained experience, my role varied from Junior Coach, to Head Coach, to Administrator, and eventually to Camp Director. Organizing daily court sessions; playing dodgeball after dinner; comforting home-sick kids in the dorms late at night; and waking up to 10 sets of sprints every morning – I was always on duty. When I was younger, I joined in the fitness sessions, but not during my final years as a coach. Too old for that nonsense.

It was a novelty to participate in my first ever adult camp last week in Palencia, Spain. This time as a student, not a coach. And to be coached. And be told to run faster, prepare my racquet quicker, stretch longer, and believe in myself. At 51, it was a bit of a push to expect myself to survive the entire week. It was necessary to take two afternoons off, to recover. I didn’t mind. I don’t feel the need to please anyone anymore – I was always a pleaser, doing what people expected me to do or say, always worried that I might disappoint someone, never taking into consideration what my own needs were.

I love getting older for that very reason. I wonder why it’s taken me so long to reach this phase of my life. Last Friday, on the final night of our camp, Annabelle and I found ourselves at a delightful little local restaurant, where it seemed as if we were the only tourists. It was 9pm at night – late for us to be eating, but we didn’t care. Collapsing onto our chairs, a perfect breeze wafted around us, caressing the skin on our bare arms and legs. Our aching bodies craved nourishment, so we grabbed the menus and started chatting.

You know the sort of conversation you have at the end of a long day, when that first beer goes down super-fast, and it’s just enough to initiate a giddy buzz? Our bums sank deeper into the seats, we browsed the tapas list, not really having a clue what to eat, but we felt damn good. There was local music playing, the vibe was relaxed, and we knew we were exactly where we were supposed to be at precisely that moment in time. We began talking about life. And people. And the world. And what it means to be getting older.

We talked about writing. Annabelle has been contemplating writing lately – boy does she have some good stories to share. I’ve always encouraged her, but without any pressure. When the time is right, and all that…

In the midst of our conversation, she said something that resonated with me immediately, and that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since.

“I don’t want to be lying in my grave, having a chat with myself, asking why I didn’t do all the things I wanted to do”.

Read that again folks.

This simple statement has stuck with me all weekend.

Don’t go to the grave, wishing you had (dot dot dot).

The next day, we flew to Barcelona and had a day to walk around and take in the beauty of the city. I’m not religious at all, in fact I’m quite certain when my time is up, I’ll be spiralling straight towards hell. But, having said that, there IS something about churches that I absolutely love. We stumbled upon a Basilica and immediately ventured inside. It was huge and majestic and magnificent. Some sort of choral chants could be heard echoing throughout. I stood there in awe, inhaling the incense that is so familiar to me. I was drawn towards the candles, and contemplated lighting one for my mum. (Don’t worry, she’s not dead. It’s just a thing Catholics do, right?) But I don’t believe in this stuff – why then, am I so drawn to these structures? Despite my unwavering repugnance of the Catholic Church, there is something very comforting about these establishments, something so very peaceful. I will always go inside. My problem is I often get carried away and start photographing priests hearing confessions, or nuns gathering around a statue of St. Anthony. In fact, I noticed St. Anthony had a mail box in this particular church, as did St. Teresa. Apparently if you put an envelope with some money into their mailboxes, you’ll likely find those keys you were looking for…

I digress, and I apologise to anyone reading this if you find my lack of respect for the Catholic Church offensive. I actually really appreciate that my mother finds solace and comfort in her nightly prayers. If it helps her in times of trouble, then she should carry on.

In a quiet moment, I stood in front of the monstruous crucifix, the Virgin Mary to my left, and the glorious stained-glass windows all around. I couldn’t help but think of what Annabelle had said the day before. “Don’t lie in your grave wishing you’d done the things you’d wanted to do”.

Later that night, lying in bed, I decided to imagine what it would be like.

Dead. But with 20 minutes to have a chat with myself. I figured my monologue would go something like this:

(Now mind you, I do plan on being cremated, so whoever’s in charge, please take note!)

God it’s dark in here.

Yeah, I sort of expected that, and I forgot my lighter.

Why would you have a lighter?

Never mind. It’s comfy though, right?

Actually, surprisingly comfy. Dark though, and a bit stuffy.

Hmmmm…So that’s it then. Life’s over. What’s that? Oh look, a flashback.

Oh, there I am with my mam and dad – that day at Brown Thomas when I finished my piano exam.

There I am again, playing squash for the first time. God I was such a tom-boy.

There I am on my bike, cycling with my eyes closed, landing on the bonnet of the neighbour’s car. (True story).

There’s me as a tree in the school play. (I always got very important parts)

Ah, there’s me on the bus with Nana Byrne, she was lovely. And there’s Hannah. Oh, I wonder if I’ll see her today?

There I am pretending to be an elephant while my cousin Maria sits on the toilet having a poo.

There I am in America, on a table, dancing. (At this point, my arm shoots up for my Dancing Queen routine, only to bash into the lid of this space I am lying in.)

There I am on the top of the World Trade Centre, a month before the 911 tragedy.

There I am doing court sprints at the squash camps in Princeton University.

There I am at my dad’s funeral.

There I am attempting suicide. Twice…

There I am in a mental institution.

There’s me getting married. Twice…

There I am winning the European Squash Championships.

There I am doing stand-up comedy.

There I am in hospital after that mini stroke.

This flashback will go on and on and on. Here’s what I don’t want to happen:

Orla, why didn’t you finish your book?

Why didn’t you make peace with your brother?

Why didn’t you go sky-diving? You had a chance you know. What were you afraid of?

Why didn’t you try sushi? Christ, the number of times you had a chance to try sushi.

Why didn’t you take that trip? Why didn’t you make that call? Why didn’t you get that tattoo? Why didn’t you submit that story? Why didn’t you answer that phone-call?

It’s a privilege to age, to grow old, to be healthy, it’s an honour. How many people have left us too soon? Shouldn’t we live our lives to the fullest in their memory? Or simply live our lives to the fullest FOR OUSELVES? In my last blog, I mentioned going out like a fucking meteor. What will it take for you to light up and do the things you want to do?

It’s no secret I don’t care much for the Catholic Church, mainly because I was banished from the church for being gay, and I spent the majority of my youth in fear of being found out. (Well, not really banished, but I like that word). Not to mention, the rejection from the nuns.  However, I believe in something. There are signs of our loved ones everywhere. All around us. We just have to look. What do you suppose they wish they’d done before they died?

If this blog sounds a little preachy, well it is. If you’re reading this and something’s resonating with you, then try this exercise. It’s a hell of a lot easier than doing goddamn pull-ups or lifting heavy things. Just lie down. And imagine you’re dead. (: It’s very relaxing.

You are given a special 20-minute gift, to have a chat with yourself. The thing is, you’re NOT dead. So doing this NOW, makes complete sense. What things do you ‘wish’ you had done? What is it that you would ask yourself?

As for me, some might say I’m going to hell. It’s okay. I don’t actually believe there IS a hell. Besides, I’ve been known to have the gift of the gab, so maybe I’ll be able to bargain with the devil!

I’m calling it the ‘Death Wish’ exercise. I hope you try it. It’s powerful. My balls of steel feel like they’ve grown from that watering can of a statement Annabelle poured over me on Friday.

Barbara Scully, Author of Wise Up, will attest to the fact that I’ve been nagging her for a month or more, to meet me for a coffee. Well, guess what, after another annoying email, promising her I’m not a weirdo (some might disagree – I don’t care), she’s agreed to meet me!

Love yourself, and allow yourself the choices to do the things you want in life. Don’t wait to have that monologue, lying in a silk-lined box.

Thanks for reading and don’t forget to comment! I love to hear from you all.

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Risk is better than regret.

Grabbing life by the horns, or balls, or ovaries! Who cares, I’m all in.

What do I write about

I’m a comedy writer and I write memoir. From daily observations to life ponderings, at age 53 I can’t help but value everything and constantly find the humour in the worst things that may happen from time to time. I’ve been a private investigator, a cookie maker, a professional athlete, I’ve crashed a jetbridge into a plane. I do stand up comedy and I’ve just taken up acting. Let’s give it all a go!

Want to come along for the ride?

I’m hoping to provide some light entertainment for anyone who fancies taking some risk in life. I can be delightfully inappropriate at times, finding the silver lining in everything, and always looking for an excuse to try the rediculous.

How often will you get this delightful drivel?

Once a week! On a Saturday morning!

What to look for in your inbox?

How about these lovely shiny funky shoes?

Buy the Shoes! Wear the Socks! And remember to enjoy yourself…it’s later than you think.

I hopped on an electric scooter the other day, in downtown Prague close to where I live. Granted, I nearly wet myself a few times going over the cobblestones, but my kegeling skills have improved dramatacially since hitting peri-menopause. I’d only ever been on such an apparatus once before, several years ago in Portugal, when my then 16-year-old step-son dared me to give it a go, assuring me that at 49 years old, I’d absolutely love it.

He wasn’t wrong. I’m always up for a dare, truth be told. And those who know me, will attest to my competitive spirit rearing its (often ugly) head at times. Now that’s not to say that I think everyone over 50 should be reckless in their endeavours to try new things. Absolutely not. We should treat ourselves with the love and care we deserve, but let’s have a little fun too, right?

I recently collaborated with Val Troy (my co-writing partner in crime), and Barbara Scully (my wisest friend, author of Wise Up!). We joined forces on a panel called the ‘Madonna Effect’, based loosely on Madonna herself – the singer-songwriter-performer, not the Blessed Virgin Mary (although that gives me another idea). Madonna, the entertainer has reinvented herself many times throughout her life, so we gave a nod to her power and wisdom as she gracefully navigates her way into her 60’s.

Believe it or not, Madonna will be 65 years old in August. She has trail-blazed a path for all women to jump headfirst into their post-menopausal years with enthusiasm, joy and delight. The three of us, all over 50, with Barbara over 60, are paving our way into the second act of our lives with gusto and determination to live our lives to the fullest. (I stole the ‘second act’ from the wonderful Kathy Lette).

The Madonna Effect is about reinvention. Together, we share our individual stories of switching gears after the age of 50, throwing caution to the wind, and trying our hand at new things. We started out at the Listowel Writers Week, entertaining a full house in the beautiful and quaint town of Listowel, and most recently appeared at the Dalkey Book Festival to a sold-out crowd, at the Vico Rooms in the Queens Bar and Lounge.

Our discussions are light and real. They are meaningful and lack bullshit. We expose our raw selves to the audience, with the hope of injecting a little bit of courage to anyone over the age of 40. Who was it that said women over a certain age should be shelved? On the contrary, we are all finding that our best lives are being unravelled right before our very eyes. And it is WILD. Val, a former accountant and mother to three teenagers, is now a comedy writer and producer of live comedy shows. Barbara, a former travel agent, also mother of three, is now a writer and broadcaster. As a former professional squash player and coach, I took up writing at age 50, became a step-parent to two teens at age 49, and now produce those comedy shows with Val.

Reinvention doesn’t have to mean a change in careers. It can involve taking up a new hobby, trying something you’ve always wanted to do but simply didn’t have the time due to family and career commitments. Reinvention taps into your authentic self, the real you, that voice inside that’s always been there, and allows it to be heard. It is, in a way, a journey back to our younger selves, and allowing that adventurous spirit to finally be alive. It’s becoming the person we were always supposed to be. 

Why is it that the spark we once had as young women, gets dimmed and becomes a distant glimmer? Why is it that the zest we oozed years ago, gets quashed? ‘Notions’ is an Irish expression commonly used for the thoughts and ideas we might have later in life to jump feet first into a new adventure. Is it that our lives become so selfless that we forget who we really are? Parenting our children, launching into careers that take over, and caring for elderly parents are all legitimate reasons for forgetting who we really are.

As a nation, Irish women were raised (at least in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s) to ‘do the right thing’. To ‘people please’. To ‘not cause a fuss’. To ‘do whats best for the family’. History has proven that the men in our lives were the ultimate bread-winners, while women stayed at home and took care of the kids and the homestead. Things slowly began to change in the late 80’s in Ireland, but that’s not to say it wasn’t frowned upon.

And what happens then, when the kids have grown up, the husband has taken up golf (okay a cliché, I know) or maybe even died (some might be glad!), our hormones shift in a most undesirable direction, and the realization that we are pretty much half way there hits home? What was it all for? Well, in our humble ‘notions-filled’ opinion, NOW comes the best part. We don’t have to please anyone anymore. We have found a new freedom to self-indulge in our own dreams. And sure, why not?

I lost a close friend on April 4^th, after a very short illness. She was 53. She was a mother, a wife, a sister, a career woman, a party planner, a holiday maker, a lover of life, and a great friend to many. And she’s gone. I spent two hours talking to her a month before she died. She was full of hope. Her positivity around her will to live was astounding. I walked away from her that day, knowing I’d never see her again, but I was invigorated by her unfathomable zest to keep on living. I walked away with a gift. The gift was knowing that my time is not up yet. So, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure the rest of my life, however long, is overflowing. (Not necessarily with Prosecco, although it will have its place).

A question from the audience towards the end of one of our panel discussion was regarding Fear. How do we deal with the fear of failure, or the fear of even getting started?

I have learned to use Fear as a motivation. Let me give you an example. I was watching Break Point on Netflix recently, which takes us on a journey behind the scenes with professional tennis players, as they share their stories of preparation for the Grand Slams of the tour. While some of it is unnecessary fluff, I found Matteo Berrettini in particular, to be rather astute. These players are faced with immense pressure from parents, social media, and of course themselves. Something Berrettini said really stuck with me. He talked about how he played better and performed better, when he felt afraid. He said he needed that fear to fuel his passion, his determination, and his self-belief. He referred to a final where he played against Novak Djokovik, and how he felt ‘no fear, but just happy to be there’. This was not a good state to be in, in terms of competing. He needed to feel ‘a bit of fear’.

I equate that to two parts of my life. One, when I compete in Masters squash tournaments. I need to feel a certain amount of fear or pressure in order to play my best. Secondly, when I’m performing stand-up comedy, if I’m feeling a little too relaxed, it never seems to go as well as when I’m feeling nervous before hand.  It’s as if my mind wants me to feel that pressure, daring me to try something that is absolutely frightening, and then the universe provides me with everything we need to succeed. Yes, I trust in the Universe. It’s a bit woo woo, but I believe having a bit of fear, or nerves, or whatever it is for you, is important to have, in order to take the risk. I’m not talking about anxiety here – absolutely not. I’m talking about that little ball of nervous excitement you might feel before you step on a roller-coaster, that knot of ‘oh why the hell did I agree to do this’ giddiness before you grab that microphone and sing your heart out at a karaoke gig for the first time…It’s a healthy and fun fear. As my pal Val always says: “What could possibly go wrong?”

I use the mantra, Risk is Better than Regret, all the time. It’s on a yellow post-it-note stuck to my desk. So, whether it’s hopping on an electric scooter despite only allowing it to go at a snail’s pace (In fact I noticed many pedestrians passing me by at their natural walking pace! I was still kegeling), or submitting that short story to a writing competition, or choosing to dance naked in your living room (preferably when your kids are not around), Take the Risk! Let a little bit of fear be your motivator.

From the words of Guy Lombardo, remember to enjoy yourselves….it’s later than you think.

The Madonna Effect will appear (not in the form of an apparition) at the Dingle Book Festival on November 17^th.  

https://dinglelit.ie/

“God has Bigger Plans for you”, came the written reply from the Mother Superior in 1989. It was penned in the most exquisite cursive letters, with such perfect handwriting that I couldn’t stop reading it. 

Bigger Plans.

Hmm. Now what, I thought.

I suppose the nuns were right and I dodged a bullet. Or maybe THEY dodged the bullet?

My childhood and youth were spent obsessing over Holy Mary. She was the only person who could save me from my wicked thoughts about Agnetha Faltskog, one of the female singers in the newly popular Swedish band ABBA. How I loved looking at her bottom in ‘ABBA – the Movie’ when it was shown in the assembly hall of St Marnock’s primary school in Portmarnock. That was 1980 and I was 9 years old.

It couldn’t be true, could it? My eyes fixated on the derriere of some blond bombshell, was surely a sin, no? But what about the crush I had on that girl in the school play, a year later? I followed her around like a little puppy, yearning to be near her whenever she was on stage. She had the lead part of the play, while I was a simple choir member. I couldn’t even sing. My lip-synching days started early apparently. Later I would learn to prance at the same time.

Her friends called me a lesbian. As a curious 10-year-old, I naturally asked my mother about this new word.

Picture the scene. It must have been a Saturday night, because my mother was sitting in front of her mirror readying herself for the impending morning rituals of the church choir gathering before 10 am Mass. Wearing an off lime-green flannel dressing gown, well-worn purple furry slippers, she had a head full of giant pink rollers. Well, half of her head anyway. The other half lay flat, begging to be transformed into the weekly Sunday morning look. It wouldn’t be right to show up at the church with limp hair, now, would it?

“Mam, whats a lesbian?” I asked with a petrified tone.

“A what?” spinning around, a lone roller exploded off her head.

“A lesbian”, I backed towards the door.

“Don’t ever use that word in this house again. Ever. Go to bed and say your prayers”.

So naturally, I retreated to my room, took hold of my plastic illuminous Holy Mary statue that my Nana had recently filled with holy water, dabbed a bit on my forehead, sniffed it a little – it definitely had an odour reminiscent of my Nana - retreated under the blankets, and prayed for forgiveness. For what? I didn’t actually know. But I did know that my illuminous Holy Mary would make it all better.

When I was 15, I accompanied my Nana to Lourdes, in France, where St Bernadette was lucky enough to see an apparition of the Blessed Virgin, in a grotto. Allegedly. Thousands of pilgrims flocked there every year (and still do!) hoping for a miracle to cure them from their cancer, or broken hip, or deafness, or blindness. Me? I just wanted to stop fancying girls. By now, I’d become clued in to what ‘lesbian’ really meant, and by GOD was THAT a sin?

I also, secretly wanted to see Holy Mary, for I firmly believe a sighting would help my cause. I went in the Holy Water Baths where hundreds of others had been, and washed my skin with all their DNA, hoping I would be cleansed of this dreadful affliction.

I didn’t see her. But I did have my first ever masturbation in Lourdes. In the bed beside my nana. Well, let me clarify. I wasn’t in the bed beside my nana. I was in ‘a’ bed, which was ‘beside’ my nana's bed. That would’ve been weird. I mean, who do you think I am?

A year after that, I visited Fr Eugene, the school chaplain at Portmarnock Community School. I was still desperate to find a way out of my sinful body and mind, and sought his help with researching religious missions I could volunteer at. At 17, I was about to sit my leaving cert (the final year mandatory exam that would determine one’s future and included life-long nightmares). As I sat in his office, gazing up at the photo of Pope John Paul II, Fr Eugene stared at me in a most uncomfortable way.

“It’s quite uncanny” he said in his broad American accent, which was a novelty for us Irish teenage girls.

“What is?” I asked uneasily. The sunshine peeping in through the office blinds, reflected on his bald head and I couldn’t stop staring at those three strands of hair neatly resting atop his left ear… not the worst of combovers, I thought.

“It’s her face”, he pointed at a statue of Holy Mary on his desk.

“Her face?” I felt a bit better now. He wasn’t about to drop the hand or anything with that disturbing grin of his.

“Yes, it’s the image of YOU!” he became more animated, sitting forward in his chair, knocking his plump belly off his desk.

“The image of me?” I felt quite chuffed to be honest.

“Look here”, gripping her midsection, he held her towards me.

“Looks JUST like you”, he continued.

Looking back, I wonder if he said that to all the girls in an attempt to woo them onto the churches side. I have blocked out many of my secondary school memories, but that one seems to always bubble to the surface.

At that point in my life, no-one knew my secret. I was the girl who played the piano at a local hotel on a Friday night. That shy girl who sometimes back-combed her hair to look like Robert Smith, but sometimes wore sensible shoes and played the organ at mass. That quiet, not-so-pleasant-looking freckle-faced girl, who played squash for Ireland and went on pilgrimages to Lourdes with her Nana. That girl probably didn’t have a sin in her bones.

The obvious thing to do, was to write to the nuns. I mean, Fr Eugene told me I had the face of our blessed virgin. It was a no-brainer, right? Besides I’d never make it in this world, not with this lie, and people would wonder why I never married. It was my only escape.

I don’t remember how I handled that rejection. Probably clutching onto my illuminous virgin mary statue, which by then was undoubtedly filled with vodka. It was in fact the first of many rejections. Now, as a writer, some 40 years later, rejections come fast and often. But I’m tougher and older and wiser – maybe that’s a stretch – but what I do know is THOSE NUNS WERE RIGHT.

2024 has started out superbly for me. My agent at WGM is excited about my memoir “I’m not Bipolar – I’m Irish”, and I’ve decided to try my hand at something new – Acting. I suppose it’s not REALLY my first time acting, is it? I practically acted my way through my childhood and early adulthood, pretending to be straight. So, I guess I have a bit of practice. It’s both ironic and extremely pleasing to me, that my very first ‘proper’ role, is that of a Mother Superior. It’s a comedy sketch, with the Prague Harman Street Players. No spoilers, but in one of the many hilarious sketches, I play a stern, seemingly frightening Mother Superior back in the 19^th century. A special delivery by carrier pigeon leaves me distressed by what I see before me on the parchment paper. And it is NAUGHTY! So, I must put an end to it!

How fitting it is that as I closed the last page of my memoir and turned it into my agent, I am starting a new chapter of my life playing the part of a Nun. The universe certainly works in mysterious ways.

My Nana is long gone, but guess what? I’m taking my mum to see the ABBA Voyage show in London this year for her 80^th birthday, where I hope to cast my eyes over the perfectly formed bottom of the Agnetha Avatar. Sure, life couldn’t be any better right?

Join me on my Substack journey. I vow (did I say ‘vow’?) to share hilarious and intimate encounters as I navigate my way through menopause, mental health trauma, being a new parent (yes, I became a step-parent four years ago, that’s a whole other wonderful story!) and reinvention over 50.

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