At 11:00 I was having lunch. Tuna in mayonnaise with sweetcorn on brown bread. The bread was home-made by a company that pretends to be a little old lady. The rest was away-made by fish, fowl and farmers.

It was gorgeous. So much so it made me feel guilty. You know. All the starving children. In the crèche in the village. They don’t get lunch until 12:30 the poor little mites.

Ah yes. The kiddies. The Irish Times was fretting about them too. Its Education Today section was in Tuesday’s edition. The Noticeboard carried information about upcoming events of interest to those about to leave school - an open day at the Racing Academy and Centre of Education for anyone thinking of a career in horse racing. There was even a URL for the RACE website. Fair play to the IT - it is not so long ago the same piece would have read something like more details available on the RACE website, with no link. Find it if you can.

Such a pity though these kids can’t access the Education Today section without paying a subscription fee.

The IT seems caught in a Lanigan’s Ball loop of stepping out then stepping back in again when it comes to technology.

At times, it meets new challenges with foresight and vigour, as it did many years ago when they it became the first Irish newspaper to launch an online presence. Then it shoots itself in that same foot that it struck out so confidently, as it did when it began charging for its online content.

Recently the IT admitted its website is struggling to break even. Surprise, surprise.

Madam

If you provide content for free the advertisers will be lining up in droves to give you their money. Even if you only open the archives you’ll make a killing.

Yours etc.

The Sneeze

The IT never seems to realise the commercial value of the Internet. Perhaps they fear the Internet. Or they simply don’t understand it.

On the one hand, it has some of the best technology writers in Karlin Lillington, Danny O’Brien and Mike Butcher. On the other, it has Colin Murphy saying things that many bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits.

The Irish Times’ editorial policy on, and understanding of, blogging is confusing to say the least. Wednesday’s edition carried an opinion piece on Taoiseach Brian Cowen’s Irish language policy, written by none other than the blogger An Spailpín Fánach. The Education Section on Tuesday had some Leaving Cert related snippets entitled Blog tales which had quotes from leaving-cert.net (a blog authored by three eloquent school-goers), walsho.net (an equally eloquent one-manstudent blog) and, get this, boards.ie. Yes! boards.ie! boards.ie! Since when are message boards blogs? Is an IM an email? Is a magazine a newspaper? No. They might share a certain traits but they are not the same.

To further confuse matters, the IT hosts very popular blogs by three of its own journalists: Jim Carroll’s On the Record, Shane Hegarty’s Present Tense and Conor Pope’s Price Watch. Yet Conor’s column in the print edition invites readers to offer feedback, with options like phone, post, email or blog it! * So leaving a comment on Conor’s blog makes one a blogger? Eh, no. If that were the case then writing a letter to the editor would make one a journalist.

I cannot help but suspect that The Irish Times is deliberately muddying the waters in order to distract the non-tech-savvy from blogs. Who do they think they are fooling? I don’t care if the little old lady who makes my bread is actually a company if it tastes good - though it would be nice if they admitted it. I don’t care if the IT source a quote from a message board if it’s worth reading - though it would be nice if they didn’t call the source a blog.

Why are they bothering anyway? The bread complements the tuna perfectly. Neither are as good on their own.

* That could be blog on.

I like lists. I made one last week using a sheet of headed paper the government sent me, a carpenter’s pencil I found behind my ear and a Robert Roberts coffee stain. You can try this at home yourself. Use a tea stain if you want. Or a biro. The choice is yours.

First on my list - the garden centre. Howya getting on, Breda? I need a television plant. [Blank silent stare]

Maybe I should explain. Maybe you should. Right. I have this big TV wall bracket thing and I want something to put on it. It looks very bare. I was considering a plant. Did you consider a TV, Primal? I did for years but now I ‘d prefer looking at a plant. I might be killing the sale here, but did you consider taking down the bracket? The wall would have to come with it. I like having the wall there for hanging things on. Like TV brackets? Yeah. If I ever get a second plant, I’d need a second bracket wouldn’t I.

Next on the list - the post office in the local shop. Can I have a €50 whatchamacallit, a Musketeer voucher please? A what? The vouchers that you can use in any shop. Oh, an All-for-One voucher. There you go. That’ll be €52 please. What? €50 worth of stuff costs €52? That’s scary. I’m afraid so, Primal. Is there anything else I can frighten you with?

Actually there is. This. That’s your shopping list, Primal. Look again. A shopping list with a coffee mug stain. Robert Roberts? Yes. Java. Very nice too. But look what it is written on. Ah, a TV Licence renewal reminder. I’ll do you up one now. No! Stop! I don’t want one. You’d better. That’s a 4th reminder. They’ll be at your door and you’ll be fined for not having one. No I won’t. I don’t have a telly. [Second blank silent stare of the day]

So what do you watch in the evenings? A pot plant. You watch a pot plant. Well not watch really. More look at. The wall-bracket where the telly used be is soon to have a pot plant on it. It’s in the car. How does that work out when you’re having a pint? “Hey lads, anyone watch that aphid last night? Something else huh?” And you won’t get Comfort conditioner in a 2l size here.

Look. Can you just tell them I don’t have a telly? They wouldn’t believe me. Why don’t you just write that on the back of the reminder and send it back to them? Tried that the last three times and it didn’t work. Try it again. Can’t - my shopping list is on the back. Sorry. Can’t help ya, Primal.

Okay. Thanks anyway. Hey, what you mean about the Comfort? I read it on your list. The 750ml is the only size they do here. It’s only a small shop remember. You’ll have to go to the supermarket. So you’re saying this shop is too small for Comfort? Something like that. Anyway, good luck now - there’s a queue behind ya.

It wasn’t on the list so I added it - a pint. The pub was deserted. Suited me fine. I’d read the paper in peace. The barman’s eyes lit up with the prospect of someone to talk to. It wouldn’t be my favourite Mediterranean country but as far as Mediterranean countries go it’s okay. I suppose you’re right, Rob - and I went back to my paper. I see you’re reading the paper there, Primal. Keeping up with current affairs and world news and all that. Well, I’m trying to but someone keeps disturbing me. I suppose it’s all on about the Lisbon thing and all that. Look, Rob. Why don’t you turn on the telly for yourself. Nah, I’m fed up with it. Nothing but racing and soccer and all that. Pity I dropped the car home - I have a grand pot plant in the boot you could be watching. [Third blank stare of the day]

He shuffled off. Finally some Comfort in this town. I checked the telly listings. Sure enough, a gardening programme at 8. I have the best thing in reality TV.*

*I needed ammunition for blank stare number four in case he came back.

That’s enough isn’t it? I can stop now?

In 2002, an Irish property developer founded the Niall Mellon Township Trust with the aim of providing the poor of South Africa’s townships with housing. You can read more about it on the website.

The way it works is unlike most charities. Rather than providing money for housing, the trust actually provides the housing itself. Each year, volunteers, mainly Irish men and women, travel to South Africa and over a period of 7 days, build houses. The volunteers must raise a minimum of €5,000 each to fund travel, accommodation, building materials, machine hire etc. While those with trades are more demand, volunteers from all walks are welcome either for their specialised skills, such as medical personnel, or simply as labourers.

Last year almost 1,400 travelled and built 203 houses. Last year one of those volunteers was a friend of mine. I admire him for taking it on, for swapping his suit for shorts and t-shirt, his laptop for a shovel and the boardroom for a building site. Unused to manual labour he naturally came home exhausted, with aches and pains and bruised and scratched. Exhausted, yes, but elated. Just off the plane he was planning for the 2008 trip.

A couple of months ago the same man returned to South Africa on holiday. One of those last minute package deals and he jumped at it. A week’s break for himself and his wife.

At the first opportunity they spilt from the tour group and made their way to the township he had worked in. Like a little boy who has just built a sandcastle he was full of excitement and couldn’t wait to show off his work to his wife. His special project had been a playground.

He didn’t recognise it at first. It was destroyed. He was destroyed. The climbing frames had been hacked down, probably for firewood. The chains on the swings were gone, probably sold for scrap. Everything was broken.

For the second time in 12 months he got off a plane from South Africa. But not elated this time. Deflated. All that work. All that time. All that money. Gone. The sacrifice of having left his wife and children, one a newborn baby, at home believing he was making a difference to the lives of those more deserving. And now, nothing to show for it. Some bully had kicked over his sandcastle. The cuts and bruises this time were to his soul. The aches and pains to his heart.

He learned a lesson that everyone involved in charity work learns. I’ve learned it myself. More than once. When asked, Niall Mellon, said it is theirs now. They can do with it as they wish. He is right, though that can be hard to accept. There is only so much you can do for someone. They have to do the rest themselves.

Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read. — Groucho Marx (no relation to Karl)

This is Toby (pretending to ignore the late cat, who in turn, is pretending to ignore him), aka The Tobster, You, Com’ere, The Hound, Black & White Thing and Jayzez Would Ya Get Outta There.

For a black and white dog, Toby had a colourful start to life:

Born on January 11, 2004, in the West-Cork Gaeltacht to a working mother - a Sheepdog - and a Labrador with a roving eye, and some other bits that roamed too, Toby’s early days were spent in a cosy hayshed with his four siblings. These happy days were shattered some weeks later when I called to collect him.

I was invited into the kitchen for breakfast by Big Pat. Big Pat, in his eighties, had just finished milking as many cows as he had seen years and announced he was hungry enough to eat a priest’s arse through a hedge. We were joined by his young lads - one in his late forties, the other just turned fifty. The puppy was brought into the kitchen so we could get acquainted.

He lay on my lap as I chatted with the men. Three tall muscular men who made light work of two pan-loaves, 1kg of butter, 2kg of ham and a huge slab of cheese washed down with two bucket-sized pots of scalding tea. Then it was time to leave.

I put the puppy in a basket on the floor of the car and was driving out the gate when Big Pat came running after me. A tear sneaking from the corner of his eye - it was the wind causing it of course. Lishen, I knew where he were going, so I’ve been shpeaking the bit of English to him.

That got me thinking. Here was a young black dog, wrenched from his family and taken to a place where he wouldn’t understand the language. A place where he would work hard (barking at cars, ignoring cats, sniffing visitors’ crotches etc.) all day, every day, only getting food in return. Somewhere around Watergrasshill the puppy was named Kunta Kinte.

A couple of days later I took him to the vet for a check up. Name? Kunta Kinte. What? Kunta Kinte. That’s hard to say never mind remember. Okay, then, we’ll call him Toby. Same thing. Is it? Trust me. Right so, and what breed is he? Sheeprador. A what? His mammy was a Sheepdog, his daddy a Labrador.

And so the puppy was registered with the vet as Toby Sneeze, Sheeprador.

How often have you heard the expression the area known locally as on news reports?

Every stretch on my road between the village and home has a name. Sadly, I’m one of the few to remember them. Last of it’s kind not in captivity - that’s me.

The Mill Bridge - No mill has been there in 150 years. Road works 50 years ago means that the once hump-backed bridge is now level and most road users aren’t even aware they’ve crossed a stream.

Cullen’s Corner - The Cullens are long, long gone and the ruins of their house have disappeared.

The Long Road - A stretch of less than 60 metres. Not a great distance you say? Well any straight is torture when you’re walking a long distance and carrying a load. Bends break such a journey.

Carter’s Lodge - I barely remember the man. I remember his voice, not his face. No one has lived there since.

The Ladys’ Walk - If you are tall enough to see over the high stone wall, you can make out what used be a pathway through the woods. The women folk at the Big House would have strolled along it in their billowing gowns. Bitching about the men folk I’m sure.

Cahills’ Orchard - Not a tree to be seen. There is the ruin of Cahills’ house. Along side it through the field is a strip where the the crops never thrive. When ploughed the stones that once were a road are visible. Keep your eyes open for similar signs and you can get to the village across the fields along a road abandoned almost a century ago - The Old Road.

Addition: I nearly forgot one of my favourites: Snailbox Hill was a steep incline that got its name in the 1940s when the sandpit opened. To get a loaded lorry up that hill you had to be in the lowest gear available.

As children, we knew all these names. You’re home early. Did you get a lift? Yeah, Mrs. Mongan picked me up on the middle of The Long Road.

But as children, the distances between each spot seemed enormous, so we named more. There was Money Corner where one of us once found a ha’penny. Primrose Country was the part of the woods along side the road that would be a cream carpet of wild flowers in early Spring. The Hanging Branch. The Big Oak. The Chestnuts. The Fox Run. The Mossy Trees.

Some of these folk-names found their way into official use over the years. I imagine that to have been the case with Cutbush, Blacktrench, Two Mile House, Turf Bog Lane and Bundle of Sticks - all to be found in County Kildare.

For generations the high, wide gates into the big farm nearby were painted blue. Twenty years ago, the new owner replaced them with silvery galvanised ones. Such was the uproar that he was forced to take them down and erect wooden ones - painted blue of course, as The Blue Door always had been.

The techie in me loves the precision of GPS co-ordinates. The amateur historian in me laments the fact I’m one of only a handful who know where The Horseman’s Gate is. But I can console myself that some names will survive a little longer. The area known locally as The Blue Door may even someday have a signpost and a place on the map.