10.19.08
Posted in Domestic/Relationships, Irish Politics, Sunday Times Columns at 9:14 pm by Sarah
Announcement: My column in The Sunday Times is concluding this week! I start in The Irish Times this Wednesday (22nd). For the moment they are cool with me publishing the columns on the blog, so though I am posting very rarely I’ll still be checking in on at least a weekly basis. I am delighted to be joining the IT. I suppose this does mean I’m officially part of the establishment, but as soon as I start sounding like it, I hope you lot will slap me around the place. It also means that as part of a daily paper I’ll have more flexibility on column topics, so its exciting times ahead. The next phase begins……
Perhaps my inner masochist is revealing itself, but I rather enjoyed the budget speech. What about the call for patriotism at the end? I actually cheered. What a smashing way to end the lashing. Yes, Minister! That’s what we’ve been missing all these years. With a mediocre soccer team and a losing streak in the Eurovision, patriotism has been sadly lacking. If hard times are what we need to bind us together then so be it. We can take the pain! I don’t mind cutbacks. Just tell me how this humble housewife can do her part to save the country.
What can I say? I was reared in the 80’s and it left a lasting impression. I never quite managed to develop a sense of entitlement. I bought the clothes, the shoes and the facials. I ate out a lot and paid other people to look after my children. But always with the uneasy feeling that someone would phone up and say “ There’s been a mistake and we’ve just discovered you’ve been using the guest towels. Here – use this old sack instead”.
Now that I’ve finally been caught out, it’s all quite a relief and I rather relish the prospect of a Blitz Spirit. So Minister, I’m in.
The problem is that there appears to be some confusion as to how the housewives of Ireland should act best for the sake of the country. The government needs unity on this issue, so Brian Lenihan needs to have a quick chat with the Greens, especially Trevor Sargeant. A couple of weeks ago Sargeant said that we belong to a useless generation. Actually he said, “We probably are the most useless generation ever to have strode the face of the earth”. This is “because of many people’s inability to do practical tasks such as mending a broken tyre.”
I blushed reading it because the bicycle bought in a rush of environmental consciousness and enthusiasm for physical fitness is out in the shed with a flat tyre. I could mend a puncture easily when I was ten, but I’m not sure how to go about it now. Could it really involve a basin of water and old spoons? I dropped into our local garage and hopefully asked the mechanics if they’d have a crack it but they looked at me as if I was bonkers. I’m not mad; I’ve simply become accustomed to outsourcing certain tasks.
Sargeant says I must change my ways and he urged us “to adopt a World War two-lifestyle and approach to consumption in the current climate”. On the one hand, that approach appeals to me. I took up the hems on my son’s schools trousers myself. I’ve got a kitchen garden going and hens are my next purchase. I don’t mind having a crack at painting the kitchen myself. Didn’t I paint my own bedroom several times when I was a teenager? The problem is that if I DIM (Do It Myself) I may be responsible for bringing the economy crashing down.
When I discussed the issue with UCD Economist Moore McDowell on The Last Word recently, he warned of the grave threat posed to the economy if we all followed Sargeant’s advice. Capitalism appears to have outlasted communism by about twenty years. This relative success is due to the theory of comparative advantage and specialisation, first proposed by Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations. The theory and practice of Comparative Advantage is that people and countries should identify what they’re good at, what earns them most money and then stick to it. They should specialise in those products and buy from others what goods or services they decide to abandon. The idea is that everyone will make more money at the end of the proverbial day. When a country decides what product they’ll trade, they need to take into account issues like opportunity cost – the cost of choosing one thing over another.
If you’re a Senior Counsel with a kitchen that needs painting, you could take the day off work to do it. But you could have earned ten grand down at the Four Courts whereas you could pay a painter a couple of hundred euro to do the kitchen. Not only does it pay you to pay someone else to do the job, but you’re boosting the economy by spreading your money around. Now the painter can buy stuff and the money trickles down the line making us all richer.
The opportunity cost for women is particularly high. When I was sitting at home congratulating myself as I sewed – badly – the hem on my son’s trousers, I would literally have been better employed paying someone else to do that job, while I scribbled out a column.
The bottom line is that Trevor Sargeant is both perfectly right and fundamentally wrong. We are a useless generation. We outsource basic jobs so frequently that certain skills once common will become increasingly scarce.
However by doing so we are actually helping the economy. Consumption might be our spiritual downfall but also our economic salvation. This is why Lenihan needs to tell Sargeant to zip it and make sure that us citizens don’t get confused by his budget message. The government needs to make cutbacks, but it’s vital that households don’t. If the country is to have a chance, the outsourcing must go on. Cleaning, decorating, repairing and baking are all tasks that came naturally to the 1950’s housewife. But we were poor and miserable in the 1950’s. If we don’t want to be poor again, the bad housewife can be the country’s great hope.
This might seem counterintuitive and you’re probably still in a post-Budget anger phase visualising all the cutbacks you’ll make around the house this winter. Stop and look at it this way. The budget wasn’t so bad at all.
For the past ten years the government flung money indiscriminately at people who could do without it. SSIA interest, automatic under-6’s child benefit bonus, over-70’s medical cards and inequitable tax allowances for high earners were all handed over as populist election winners. The money was crudely distributed and is being more crudely recouped, but I can’t help feeling it’s a case of easy come; easy go. What Fianna Fail giveth, Fianna Fail taketh away.
The trick to our future is to get over the snatching back of what we never should have gotten in the first place. Some people are poor, but if you’re reading this paper, I’d bet that you’re not. However, if you start acting poor then we’re really done for. The Blitz Spirit is all very well, but ultimately streets were bombed into rubble. If we don’t want to see our economy reduced to rubble, then we need to keep spending. Useless citizens of Ireland unite. Your economy needs you.
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Posted in Irish Politics, Sunday Times Columns at 9:01 pm by Sarah
n 1999 Jim Mitchell was chairman of the Public Accounts Committee when it conducted an important and uncommonly efficient inquiry into the wholesale avoidance of Deposit Interest Retention Tax (Dirt) by Irish banks.
For years, half the country were stashing their savings in deposit accounts that were supposedly “non-resident” and therefore exempt from tax on the interest. Senior banking and revenue executives were summoned by the committee to explain why they allowed this fiction to continue, at an eventual cost of €100m to the state.
The hearings were broadcast on TG4 and on the internet. It was a cheap, fast inquiry and was followed by a speedy, hard-hitting report. Nobody ever dreamt that Irish parliamentarians could be this efficient.
One day, in the middle of a side meeting, Mitchell received a phone call. He turned his back on his colleagues as he spoke briefly with his doctor. It was bad news. His cancer was back and, because a number of his siblings had died from the same disease, they both knew his chances of beating it were non-existent. He’d received a death sentence. Mitchell didn’t flinch, hung up, and returned immediately to his work. His colleagues had no idea what had just happened. It was brave, selfless and an act of heroism: public service over private troubles.
I couldn’t help thinking of him after I’d flung the Sunday Independent across the room last Sunday morning. Eoghan Harris, appointed to the Seanad by Bertie Ahern, informed us that senator Jim Walsh, the government whip, had called him in west Cork to wish him well and assure him his vote wasn’t needed to get the banks’ bailout bill passed in the upper house. Harris declared himself “glad to be able to avoid the cabin fever around Leinster House”. He decided to go for a walk instead.
Senator, I am sorry you are ill and I wish you well, too. But you are writing newspaper columns about long walks, hearty meals and the pleasures of staying up all night to watch the American presidential election debates. You are not supposed to be “glad” you don’t have to show up when the most important piece of legislation in decades is being debated. Your opinions on the American elections may be fascinating, but as a highly paid legislator, your opinions on the bailout should be on the record of the Seanad and not in a newspaper.
If your absence is truly unavoidable due to illness, an expression of regret rather than relief would be appropriate.
One week earlier Anne Harris complained in the same newspaper that Fine Gael’s decision to deny voting pairs to government TDs, as a protest against the taoiseach’s refusal to hold a full debate on the economy, was “hysterical” and “playing politics”. Why is it war on presenteeism from the Sunday Independent? What do they want — TDs and senators to text in their votes as if they were watching a reality TV show?
We pay our public representatives pretty well. Have our expectations sunk so low that even showing up is asking too much?
Fortunately, the taoiseach is taking the matter more seriously and gave Kerry North TD Tom McEllistrim and Donegal North East’s Jim McDaid a dressing-down in front of their colleagues over their absence from the same debate. Rightly so. McEllistrim had been canvassing in his constituency. I’ve no idea what McDaid’s excuse was.
I’m still shaking my head at the antics of Fine Gael’s James Bannon. He failed to show for the Dail’s opening week because he forgot the holidays were over. He forgot? So what is the penalty? A fine? Standing in the corner of the Dail with a dunce’s cap on?
Usually, politics is an irrelevant side-show where politicians, no matter how sincere or hardworking, make little difference. But in the past fortnight, politics was back in the spotlight and democracies around the world needed politicians to step up, rather than back, from the crisis we face. We don’t need politicians when everything is going well. When everything goes wrong, as it has now, turning up is a minimum requirement.
I think Fine Gael’s refusal to provide pairs unless absolutely necessary was the right move. For one glorious week we had an opposition. I’m only sorry they implemented the harsh regime for such a brief time. I’d prefer if Ahern stopped swanning around New York and got into the Dail to give us the benefit of his 10 years’ experience as taoiseach. Frustratingly, though, Fine Gael insists on being gentlemanly and points out that it’s traditional for former taoisigh to get a free pass from the Dail.
Oh, come on. Ahern showed up to pay tribute to Seamus Brennan last week, but was not around for the vote on the bailout. These are not priorities that comfort frightened citizens. Brennan was a good man and deserves tributes, but we deserve the contribution of a former taoiseach to a debate on the bailout. He’s the one who told us last year that people who made gloomy forecasts on the economy should commit suicide. I am extremely interested in his reflections on the current crisis.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the likes of McEllistrim are right. Consider again Jim Mitchell. What was his reward for putting dying aside while he worked late nights and weekends on the committee? He lost his seat in the next general election, in June 2002, and was dead by December. Who’d have blamed him if he’d decided not to run? Due to constituency boundary changes, he knew his chances of being elected were poor but Fine Gael was desperate for candidates and he agreed to run.
Maybe McEllistrim knows too well that many voters couldn’t care less what happens in Leinster House. Perhaps he was smart to stay in Kerry minding his seat rather than making a pointless contribution to a debate in the Dail. But what is he minding his seat for? Hand shaking door-to-door was supposed to be the means, but apparently has become the end too.
So maybe the results of Dail and Seanad votes are foregone conclusions. Maybe the standard of Oireachtas debate isn’t exactly soaring. And yes, I know it’s frustrating to move amendments that will inevitably be voted down by the government. But so what? That’s the system. The alternative is to count up the votes on each side after an election and send every TD, bar the cabinet, home to write letters about potholes.
Otherwise, Dail votes are mere symbolism and parliamentary debates are a game of charades. What about bearing witness, asking questions and demanding accountability? Say it ain’t so, Eoghan; say it ain’t so.
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10.07.08
Posted in Irish Politics, Sunday Times Columns at 9:18 pm by Sarah
I used to play poker. Sometimes you weren’t quite sure if you had the winning hand, but you’d go “all-in” and hope your opponent couldn’t see your heart leaping in your chest. Win or lose, it was quite a rush. Last week Brian Lenihan went all-in and our hearts are still thumping as we wait to see how the finance minister’s hand plays out. It’s terrifying and thrilling and I have a headache from trying to figure it all out.
There are bright sides: the arguments over Grey’s Anatomy versus Champions League have ended in our house. We’re watching one show — the news. Every night brings a fresh twist on the credit crunch: the outrage in Brussels over our guarantee to the banks, the mind-boggling “nouveau Europhilia” at Downing Street. My pre-packaged opinions are useless. There is only one line to which I cling, and it comes from a New York broker: “Anyone who thinks they know what’s going to happen next is deluding themselves.”
Last week I wrote that we shouldn’t trust Lenihan. This week it appears we have no choice. There are still plenty of reasons not to trust him. This is Fianna Fail we’re talking about, so builders and bankers get first dibs on the lifeboats. The taxpayers are the mugs in steerage who’ll be left clinging to driftwood. On the other hand, he is a Lenihan. His clan is full of desperately decent people, if unfortunately misguided on the subject of loyalty. All we can do is pray that, this time, the legendary fealty of the Lenihans will be directed towards us and not Fianna Fail.
Of course it would be better if it wasn’t up to prayer. It would also be more reassuring to have a section in the Credit Institutions (Financial Support) Bill 2008 stating that the banks’ chief executives will get 40 lashes for every ¤100m of state guarantees.
Lenihan says he will ensure there is oversight and accountability, but insisted that the Dail give him a free hand. You know what we’ve done? We’ve given him what Congress refused to give Hank Paulson — unlimited authority.
When Congress said no to Paulson, I recalled Conor Lenihan telling me that his father once observed it was a shame that history often fails to credit the great decisions to do nothing. Sometimes, doing nothing is the right option. Is this one of those times? Should we have let the “scum” (as Paul Gogarty, a Green TD, called them) go down? They tell us we can’t because as The Brother said when news of the bailout broke: “The banks have us by the short and curlies.” On the other hand, The Uncle arrived for coffee grinning from ear to ear: “Isn’t it great? We have them by the short and curlies.” They’re both right. The banks have us over a barrel and we have to bail them out, but this is also a chance for, if not revolution, then at least reform.
We’re all in shock at each new development, but we need to snap out of it.
If we don’t seize the initiative, the creeps will pull us deeper into the mire and we’ll be paying for it for another 10 years.
The author Naomi Klein calls it The Shock Doctrine. Every now and then a country faces a calamity, either a natural disaster like Hurricane Katrina; a terrorist attack like 9/11; or a financial shock such as the one we’re experiencing now.
While the public reels and tries to absorb the shock, the establishment is ready. It smashes the “Break in Case of Emergency” glass and pulls out pre-prepared policies which the public accepts because it is too busy trying to save itself.
In New Orleans, poor black communities fled their homes after Katrina and they are now being rebuilt as condominiums for the rich. In Washington, the Patriot Act was rushed into legislation after 9/11 and it introduced the corporatisation of national security. Every disaster in our health service strengthens the case for Mary Harney to build private hospitals on public sites. Every crisis is really just another opportunity for the right wing to protect the super-rich at the expense of the permanent poor.
So now, with people terrified that we’re about to go back to 1983, the bankers who over-leveraged their debt are seizing not just the public’s money but the state’s entire reputation, just to protect and advance themselves. We’re witnessing the wholesale dumping of private debt onto the public purse. The smug millionaires who extolled the purity of the market are exposed as being wholly without ideology. Government intervention, so long despised as an unnecessary and outrageous constraint on the wisdom of the glorious market, is co-opted as the new tactic in the pursuit of profit. Klein calls it Disaster Capitalism.
Only a disaster could allow a bill to be put through the Dail in the middle of the night which gives one minister, Brian Lenihan, extraordinary power to guarantee our banks to the tune of hundreds of billions and get absolutely nothing in return. The banks could literally take the money and run, and where would we be left then? With an enormous deficit and public services slashed for the next decade.
In the meantime, we want desperately to believe in strong leadership. It could be the making of Lenihan.
Here is the lesson for us: the banks knew what they wanted and they got it. We must get over our shock and do the same. The public has to be just as clear in its demands. There must be no equivocation on executive pay; any bank that avails itself of the guarantee should be banned from rewarding its reckless CEOs with bonuses. Their wages must be slashed before bank charges are increased. We must have government representation on risk-management committees so the banks can’t dupe us out of more money.
Since it was Lenihan to whom the Dail handed all this power, the finance minister must be the one who has to stand up to the CEOs. As the saying goes, he’s only as strong as the backbone we give him. We’re now far too middle-class to march on the Dail and demand our pound of flesh, but we do have phones, e-mail and pens. We need to remind him that the interests of Fianna Fail and the nation, so often confused, are not the same thing after all.
Lenihan’s hand was forced last week by the banks and now it behoves us to do the forcing. He’s gone all-in — with our money. If we allow him to let the banks continue to get away with their behaviour, we deserve everything that’s coming. Act now, for last week was only the beginning. My heart is thumping. How about yours?
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09.29.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 8:20 pm by Sarah
Minister for Finance Brian Lenihan rang RTE boss Cathal Goan to complain about Liveline’s programme last Thursday week. The government was outraged because Duffy suggested that customers shouldn’t trust the banks. The plebs were panicking. It was irresponsible, the government felt, to create alarm amongst the general public by discussing the stability of our banking system on the airwaves. What sanctimonious drivel. What Lenihan was really saying was, “Cathal, please – not in front of the children”.
It’s called a credit crunch because banks have stopped giving each other credit. They’re afraid to lend each other money and right now, not even Henry Paulson’s $700 billion can fix that fundamental lack of trust between banks, regulators and politicians. So let me get this straight: they don’t trust each other, but we’re supposed to?
Regular readers of this column will know that I have little patience for the hysterical over-reactions of the ill-informed, but on this occasion callers to Liveline were not inventing anxiety – they were accurately reflecting the worries of the establishment.
Until the past fortnight, I’d been observing the global financial meltdown with the same insouciance one has when watching news reports of drug gang assassinations in far-off suburbs. It’s dreadful of course, but its only bad guys killing each other. What’s a few thousand Wall St brokers to me? I have a zero tolerance approach to financial risk and refuse to even take out a pension as I won’t expose my savings to the risks of the stock market. I confess, I’ve been feeling a bit smug about that decision lately.
Then an innocent bystander is killed by a stray bullet. I began to get the uncomfortable feeling that my cash on deposit was entering the line of fire. Why did people keep mentioning the bank where my SSIA money sits quietly gathering dust and a miserable interest rate? Of course, I know that the government wouldn’t let a bank go under. Of course I know that even if a bank did collapse deposits would be safe. The papers assure me that rumours of an Irish bank’s demise are the work of dirty rotten short sellers who thrive on the misery of others.
But up until last weekend, the only cast iron guarantee I had was that 90% of customers’ deposits up to a limit of €20,000 were actually secured by the government. I didn’t want to lose 10% of my money. I didn’t want to lose 1% of my money. Then Lehman Brothers employees emptied the chocolate vending machines on their way out the door. The butterfly was flapping its wings in China. Was the earthquake coming? I began to ring my establishment friends looking for a little assurance. I didn’t get any.
The insiders I spoke to were doing plenty of panicking. Business people, stock-broking types and financial journalists either didn’t want to talk about it which was bad enough or warned me to get my money and stuff it in the nearest mattress.
I fretted and rang around some more. “Look”, the men-in-suits said, “Even if your bank goes down the tubes, you will probably get your money. But it could get tied up in paperwork for months though so you should get it out now while you can. Try the Post Office.” I hadn’t even heard Liveline. My own phone lines were live with the financial anxiety of those-in-the-know. So where did Lenihan get off complaining to RTE?
He’s the one who turned green when he got a look at the books after his big promotion. Does he expect us to believe that his civil servants and central bankers are dining out on long lunches and wondering what all the fuss is about? No: panic is for the insiders who can take steps to protect themselves when the pyramid scheme comes crashing down. The function of the public is to pick up the tab. To keep the system working, we have to be the last ones to know that the money is gone.
The Minister says, “Trust me”. The Regulator says, “Trust me”. The bank’s CEO says smoothly at the AGM “Trust me”. Why? What have any of these people done to deserve our trust? We are where we are because none of them did their jobs properly. The entire history of banking and investments is one where the insiders run off with the cash and the hoi polloi lose everything. Not this time Minister.
The same day as the Liveline show, Financial Regulator Paddy Neary had issued a soothing statement saying that Irish banks were sound, but that meant nothing to me. It’s his job to say things like that, especially when they’re not true. When they start making statements you know things must be really bad. It’s also the Regulators’ job to make sure that banks don’t over leverage their debt. It’s also the Regulators’ job to make sure that banks don’t lend too much money to people who might not be able to pay it back. If the global financial meltdown has shown anything it’s that Regulators have been taking a 10 year nap instead of doing their job. So excuse me if I don’t hold their statements in high esteem. I don’t trust Regulators any more and that’s their fault, not Joe Duffy’s.
On the Friday afternoon Lenihan went on telly and informed us that bank deposits were not in danger and despite persistent questioning from the only man in the country with sense – George Lee, he insisted that speculation about raising the state guarantee on savings was unhelpful and not even that important. I liked the body language, but it wasn’t enough. I rang my bank and told them to transfer my money out first thing Monday morning.
On Saturday, Lenihan raised the deposit guarantee to €100,000. So tell me this, Minister: were you economical with the truth on Friday or did you get up on Saturday morning and suddenly change your mind as you munched your cornflakes? Are you fickle or a fibber? I think the decision had been made on Friday. Don’t get me wrong, it was the right move and I decided to leave my money in the bank after all. But he should’ve done it four days earlier, and he shouldn’t get upset when we talk about trust. He looked us in the eye and told a porkie on Friday. And he thinks we should trust him?
“There, there” he’ll say. “Daddy couldn’t say anything on Friday. He had to wait til the markets closed. Here’s a lollipop. Go and watch cartoons”. I don’t want to watch cartoons. I want the truth.
The FBI is beginning investigations into the whole mess and we can look forward to some high profile perp-walking. Jailing bankers is a strategy I like. Trusting them? Don’t talk to me. Talk to Joe. He’ll tell you what’s going on.
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Posted in Domestic/Relationships, Sunday Times Columns at 8:14 pm by Sarah
In a horizon-broadening move, I bought tickets for No Man’s Land at The Gate. My sister readily agreed to come along even after I briefed her on what to expect. “This is Pinter, so its not going to be fun: uncomfortable silences and plenty of bleakness. On the other hand, one of the guys from Little Britain is in it”. On arrival we greeted The Art Collector whom she’s met once before and only then I realised I hadn’t warned her about one important aspect of the evening: there would be kissing. He leaned forward; she leaned back. He kept going and she rigidly offered a cheek. When my other friend, the Cultured Software Executive wilfully ignored her horror and lunged, she broke into a sweat and made a hasty departure to the Ladies so she could compose herself.
The next day the Brother rang in distress. He’d just been to a corporate lunch. “What’s the story with the kissing? I hardly know these people and they’re all kissing. What am I supposed to do?”
We’re not of kissing stock. Not with each other and not with strangers. In fact, an aversion to unnecessary physical contact meant my granny was appalled by the introduction of the Sign of Peace at Mass. My father used to poke her in the side and make her shake hands while we giggled at her outrage. Honestly, mocking your poor granny at Mass. We’re definitely going to Hell. Once, when the Brother in America was heading off, we made our goodbyes by nodding significantly from across the room and I believe I raised a hand in a rather jerky attempt at a wave. My then fiancé looked on in horror. “What’s wrong with you people? You won’t see him for a year. You’re supposed to hug or something.”
“We’re not like that,” I snapped. He looked aghast and before he could start thinking about the terrible mistake he’d made by getting involved with my family, I changed the subject.
Of course I’ve moved on since then and have grown accustomed to the expectations of people with different approaches to meeting and greeting. The problem is there are no rules. Time was when only Arabs or Soviet leaders engaged in male to male cheek kissing but now even that certainty has gone. Playful back-slapping has given way to hugging and I’ve heard that in some circles, non-homosexual male kissing is quite the thing. Let the blame-storming begin: the Celtic Tiger and the telly. If it’s not the continental home-owning brigade then it’s an overdose of The Sopranos. Look, France and Italy have much to offer; the weather; the food; the wine. And while its great value to bring home the Rose at €4 a bottle, could we not leave the kissing there? The “a trois” is torture with the wrong people.
It’s creating social chaos. No one knows with whom or when and social context is no use at all. Some people are kissers and some are not. Others kiss some of the people some of the time. Our cosmopolitan lifestyles have curdled horribly with our agricultural backgrounds and the result is a thousand micro-cultures of etiquette and potential embarrassment. Who doesn’t dread the awful moment as your greeter’s lips zero in on your face and your hesitation, though split second, is long enough for them to realise they’ve badly miscalculated the nature of your relationship.
Maybe you offered one cheek and then rashly withdrew, only to realise the kisser is now smooching the space where your other cheek was just a second ago. You can dart back in but the whole process is shambolic. Have you shown yourself up as a hick? Did they presume too much? Oh God, please make it end.
I’ve tried to work out where my own boundaries are but there’s no logic. With some I’m a natural but I can’t figure out the distinguishing factor. It’s not a case of affection or lack thereof. I don’t kiss college friends of whom I am very fond, yet I frequently find myself grimacing as I kiss people I don’t really like at all. Maybe someone should put us out of our misery? My sister said a new friend in their group started kissing and everyone was too polite to object. Much to their relief, one of the gang returned from a year in Australia and put a stop to it. “Woah! Since when did we start kissing?”
The problem is it all happens so fast. You meet, one party goes for it, the other instinctively responds and then someone has second thoughts. There’s a screech of brakes as you realise its too much, too soon and too late to pull back. You finish the act but you both know its all been a horrible mistake.
Citing “When in Rome, do as the Romans” is no help since one never knows where one is. Dublin 4 isn’t the only place that’s a state of mind. I’ve discovered though, that geography is important.
During what we ironically refer to as “Summer”, I attempted a Sunday Lunch. I imagined one of those events where there would be sparkling repartee and admiration for my cooking. As usual expectation and reality were distant cousins. The risotto turned into rice pudding and inviting my urban metrosexual friends to Enfield created an unexpected moment of self-revelation. When one was making his departure I automatically put out my hand. He burst out laughing. “What are you doing shaking my hand?” I laughed too, astonished. When we meet in town it would never occur to me to shake hands. We always kiss, but now that we were on my home turf I had instinctively reverted to type. The woman was firmly back in the bog.
On the bright side (or is it?) the Brother in America seems to be making progress. When he leaves now we make a desperately pathetic effort at affection. We aim for a hug, though its turns more into patting the others back while keeping our arms so rigid that actual bodily contact is practically imperceptible. It’s excruciating, but hey, we’re trying.
Generally its better to avoid the whole business by engaging in a Western style Quick Draw. If you thrust your hand forward for shaking quickly and dramatically enough, it might put the kisser off completely. The pre-emptive rejection of their gesture might throw them, but it’s better than the embarrassment of banging cheek bones and getting all flustered.
The trick is in seizing the initiative. It’s a bit like the advice my friend the psychoanalyst gives when boarding a bus. Don’t automatically sit beside an empty seat because a smelly odd person might take it. Make sure you choose who to sit beside. If you’re not a kisser, don’t be discombobulated by a presumptuous lovee. Preserve your dignity and put out your hand because sometimes, the old ways are best.
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08.22.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 8:43 pm by Sarah
Last week’s fake debate over the reintroduction of university fees had me shouting at the radio – always a bad sign. At one point Ciaran Cannon, the leader of the Progressive Democrats, claimed he was not in disagreement with Mary Harney even though he was ruling out bringing back third-level fees while the health minister said she was ruling nothing out. Shouting is the only valid response.
The Labour party, meanwhile, deserves an Olympic gold medal for managing to pirouette their way out of a controversy which exposes their bizarre position as a supposedly left wing party determined to represent the upper middle class. Michael D Higgins screeched about the principle of equality of citizenship having to be respected. The richer the citizen the more respect they need, apparently.
There is no equality anywhere in the Irish education system. Not at 18 years, when the children of millionaires graduate from expensive private schools into free university places; not at 12, when affluent parents work themselves into a frenzy to get their over-achieving darlings into the best private schools; not even at four, when the notion of “free” primary education is at its most farcical.
Equality disappears as early as Day 1. Baby may be born into a home where he’ll be weaned on organic fruits and Montessori methods, or one in which his parents and theirs have no experience of employment let alone university education. For a significant minority, achieving literacy will be their educational high point – not taking a commerce or arts degree in University College Dublin. If a poor but talented student manages to cross every hurdle in her path and make it to university, she’ll be entitled to free tuition anyway under the grant system. All that free third-level fees has done is create a boom for private schools in south Dublin. What poor people need is the nanny state to do some nannying when there is hope of making an impact. Free pre-school would make a difference; free university doesn’t.
Labour’s position is even more curious when you consider that Eamonn Gilmore’s party opposes the automatic award of medical cards to all OAPs. Labour, rightly, reckons it’s unfair that rich OAPs should get free medical care. So why should rich students get a free education?
Fianna Fail argued that means-testing the medical card for OAPs would cost more than universal provision. So it defends giving the medical card to millionaire pensioners but says it’s time to means-test parents on third-level fees. Is any Irish political party capable of holding a consistent position on who should get what for free?
Let me save everyone a lot of time – university fees are not coming back. Why? There are 50,000 reasons, roughly the number of votes Fianna Fail TDs picked up in the last general election in south Dublin, home of the golden circle of private schools. The good news is that the proposal may still amount to more than idle kite-flying by Batt O’Keeffe. There are many who suspect that the education minister’s apparent willingness to put fees back on the agenda at the request of the money-hungry university heads was a ruse. On Monday he kicked off the debate by assuring the college administrators that he’d be happy to talk about giving them what they want – an independent revenue stream. By Wednesday the sweet talk was over. O’Keeffe would talk about fees if the university administrators would talk about their salaries. “I want to make sure that the senior people in our universities who are the most professional, [who] have the greatest experience and who can make a valuable contribution to students, are actually in the classroom from time to time,” he said. Ouch. Did I just hear the sound of backfire?
Universities have been radically transformed in the past ten years, and not for the better. Here’s what happened. Some academics abhor students and dislike arts subjects. They can’t stand teaching or otherwise consorting with the immature undergraduates on whose existence they unfortunately depend. In previous days they could hide out in research and grudgingly fulfil their lecturing obligations. But the 1990s presented them with a new opportunity: they could sit on committees instead. Consultants were sent for, reports drawn up, reviewed and implemented. Honestly, this committee business got totally out of hand and they simply didn’t have time to teach students any longer. What a shame.
So what did these reports say? Well, consultants are business people so it was hardly a surprise when they recommended that the universities should turn themselves into businesses. Though our finest colleges have traditionally fought to preserve their autonomy from governments so that their work could be truly independent, universities now worked furiously to make themselves slaves to the corporations who would fund them. Corporations who donate money for research demand success metrics. Big business has no interest in history, philosophy, geography or languages: the subjects the vast majority of students want to study. Their focus is business and applied sciences. The result is that instead of being islands of independent thought, universities became commercial projects designed to please donors.
Eventually the language of business was co-opted. There was talk of strategic restructuring, change management, league tables and deliverables. Then business titles were awarded. Where once there were Deans and Bursars, now Vice-Presidents and Chief Operating Officers were inserted into an increasingly layered bureaucracy. Finally, the COOs and the VPs argued that it was unfair that they should make do on the stingy salary of academics. They deserved to be paid like business titans, and so they awarded themselves massive pay hikes.
The only problem was that if taxpayers and academics found out how much the administrators were paying themselves, there’d be war. So the ex-academics, now full-time bureaucrats, tried to keep the pay increases secret. Even though it is now a well established principle that people paid from the public purse should have their salaries made public, the Irish Federation of University Teachers had to resort to the Freedom of Information Act to find out just how significant campus pay packets actually are.
They discovered that a chosen minority of administrators were given secret pay deals in six out of our seven universities, with one individual getting a package of €400,000 a year. As one academic told me: “They’ve been rumbled.”
Then this highly remunerated cabal of universities chiefs decided they needed a large income stream, but in their demand for a reintroduction of fees, they may have over-reached themselves. They have allowed O’Keeffe onto campus. The government does need to provide adequate funding for third-level education, but it wants the recipients of any extra largesse to get out of the committee room and back into the classroom. Any extra money will have to be spent on “chalk and talk” and not feathering the nests or strengthening the empires of self-perpetuating bureaucrats.
Now that I wouldn’t mind shouting about.
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07.28.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 9:42 pm by Sarah
We have sown the seeds with Cuil and will tend to it carefully, nurturing its index, fine tuning the ranking, hope for fine weather and ward off predators. As we wait for the crop to mature, fortunately I came home to find that our mange tout has provided more instant gratification.
When we planted those little peas and leaves popped out a few days later, I thought “ooh that’s quick and cute!”. Then they got taller and taller and were falling over and we stuck in a few twigs and then they got taller than the twigs and kept going! Betty said they’d never do as we hadn’t minded them properly at all. Too late we did some research and found out that peas grow really high! and you’re supposed to have all kinds of grids or tall twiggy supports. I did an emergency run to the hardware shop and bought sticks.
And suddenly! hundreds of ‘em!. M has been blanching and freezing and doling out mange tout to grateful family members. They are practically free (cost us the seed and the batons), didn’t come from Kenya, are HUGE and tasty and we are delighted.
Here’s for those interested in my ongoing horticultural project,
our lettuce:
and a closer shot of the raised bed:
I have to say, the raised bed was well worth the trouble (an 18month gestation while we figured out how much wood to buy, got Feargal to build it and looked for top soil). With minimal fencing it kept out the rabbits and deterred the slugs (we only had a few) and no insect pests for some mystery reason. Made it all very easy to maintain too. No digging and only a little bending.
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07.14.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 3:42 pm by Sarah
A funny and revealing incident yesterday.
I invited some friends down for lunch which is a rare event. I usually make the expedition to town, where as is the custom, we greet each other with cheek kissing (lips making contact with skin when warranted – air-style reserved for less-intimate acquaintances) and varying degrees of hugs (I prefer the two hands on shoulders minimalist version to the full-on arms around the neck drama).
Yet when my friend John was leaving yesterday he laughed heartily when I offered him my hand to shake. “What are you doing shaking hands with me?” I realised it was because we were in Enfield – where we shake hands and do not kiss, or hug, ever, regardless of who the meeter or greeter is – be they friend or relation.
Same person but different location! Automatically I reverted to type when in my own kitchen, but in Dublin 2 where we would normally meet in executive restaurants, it would never have occurred to me to shake hands. In fact, it would be odd and bizarre…
Our unconscious little ways….
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06.30.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 11:10 pm by Sarah
What is the line?
We have been harvesting our greens. It’s SO gratifying. Salads of spinach, rocket and two kinds of lettuce. We are so delighted with ourselves and sigh and say “Yes, it IS working out” and then immediately panic that we are being smug and self-congratulatory and something awful is bound to happen. Like the Gods saying “Ha! They think they are great! But WE will show them”.
What is the difference between saying “phew, we made good choices and we are reaping the rewards – cheers dahling” and being horrible?
Is there some Irish taboo against talking oneself up? Are we culturally programmed to run ourselves down for fear others will think we’re getting airs? When is it ok to say “Wow. We did well. Hurrah!”
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06.27.08
Posted in Sunday Times Columns at 10:50 am by Sarah
Oh dear.
I was at the kitchen sink, as a good little housewife should be 
and saw a sudden flash of black under the white thorn hedge. A cat! Leaping for and seizing some prey, which of course I assumed was a bird. But it was grey and seemed a bit big for a bird. Surely not? I dashed upstairs for a better view. A rabbit! Bloody cat had managed to get a rabbit. He took a couple of seconds to control it and then nonchalantly strolled across the lawn and down the driveway holding it by the neck between its teeth. It looked heavy! I didn’t recognise the cat although we have noticed some cruising through recently. He was a blocky looking thing. Almost muscley which for a cat, is odd. I considered giving the cat a fright in case he dropped the rabbit, which may not have been dead. But….well, then I’d just have a nearly dead rabbit to deal with.
Good job he didn’t get a bird or that would a Dead Cat Walking. (My father is the Avenger of Murdered Birds).
I’m quite shocked.
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