That day I didn’t wake on time that day and missed my lift. The first time ever. I was angry with myself. I would have to take the first bus but would be two hours late for work. Two hours late on one of the busiest days of the year. That day the bus came early. The first time ever. I had missed it. We all had. I would be even later.

A couple at the stop decided to take their car. The first time ever. I could travel with them. Half way into the journey the woman remembered something she had left behind and we turned back. Setting out again I seen mo mháthairín walk up toward the church. I waved and smiled. She waved and smiled back. She stood looking after the car. I guessed she was wondering why I was going to work so late. I was never late. That wasn’t the way she reared me.

The receptionist had a message for me. Call home. Urgently.

I sought out a workmate. I needed to tell someone. I needed company. My hands shook uncontrollably. She lit a cigarette for me. I couldn’t hold it. My head spun. My knees were weak. Memories came flooding. Tears too.

Crazy thoughts. Had some force had contrived to delay me that day? Delay me long enough to wave a last goodbye? Her god, perhaps? Not mine. I didn’t have one. But she did. One she believed in and trusted in with all her heart. That I couldn’t believe was something she accepted. That was the woman she was. Open-minded and wise. Uncommon for one of her era. Accepting of everyone. Black, white, Muslim or Jew - we’re all the same, a mhic. We’re just people, just people, a mhic was her mantra.

That day I thought of how the little people were drawn to her unquestioning love. They sensed it before the big people did. Our house was never empty. Always full of children. They concocted the flimsiest of excuses to be there. Never a harsh word. The boldest child would sit quietly, staring adoringly as she told some tale of times past. She’d drop a hint. Never give an order. The children would comply. They would open up and share their troubles and fears. Ones they couldn’t tell their own parents. She’d have advice and consolation for them. As teenagers they would come to her with their broken hearts and she’d fix them as best she could. She was never Mrs to them. Children instinctively used her first name. She was a friend not an adult. And remained one.

As young couples they would come to her with their problems. Even physical ones. Ones that couldn’t be spoken aloud in the Ireland of the 60s and 70s. Their secrets would be safe with her. They brought their babies to be minded. They would be safe with her. Later these children would come to her themselves and the cycle would begin again.

She couldn’t read or write but that didn’t matter. No one though less of her for that. She was wise is so many other ways. Wise beyond her years.

That day when I got to her house it was empty. Full of people, but empty. Silent touches. Hugs. Sobs. Sobs over the phone. Only the dog made noise. Whining, fretting, knowing something was wrong. She was missing. Wasn’t coming back. Animals had always sensed something about her. Stray dogs followed her. Wicked ones lay down at her feet. The ones that bit others licked her face. She had no fear of them. Nor they of her.

That day I recalled when I was six and a young horse shied and threw the rider. It reared and bucked and the other riders couldn’t get near it. I yelled in terror. Frozen to the spot. Afraid it would clear the hedge into the yard and trample me. She calmly walked onto the road and stood in front of it. Waited until the rein dropped into reach and caught it. She wouldn’t have the strength to hold it. The riders pleaded with her to back away. She didn’t need strength. It calmed down as she mumbled to it. Stood with its head bowed and nuzzled her as she admonished it for being bauld and warning it not to do that again. She was protecting me and the rider injured on the ground. She stayed. Soothing it when the ambulance arrived. Siren blaring. Lights flashing. Stroking its neck. The horse remained placid in her hands. Good boy. Good boy. There’s the fella. Easy now. Good boy.

Everyone knew her. When asked, I always identified myself as her son not my father’s. It was easier. Rich and poor knew her and were treated equally. The wealthy neighbour would sit drinking tea in her kitchen with the unemployed labourer. The stable hand with the government minister. They would never been seen together in a pub or even in the church. But there was none of that auld shite in her kitchen - the door is always open; the kettle’s always on; take me as ye find me; lump it or leave it; no airs and graces around here.

That day I tried in vain to count all the times she’d been unwell. How she’d prepared me for the worst before her heart operations. Stern warnings to be brave. Just in case. But not to worry. Her god would take care of everything. Then laughing, ah shur they’re just putting in a new spring is all. That’ll keep it ticking for years and years.

That day I pictured the two of us. On the way home from a hospital again. An eye operation to remove an abscess. An operation that didn’t work. Now one eye less. Did the false one hurt? Feel funny? Could she see well enough? A fit of giggles. Your father will be right for once - Like he always says, I do only be half watchin’ the telly.

That day I was taken back to cold dreary Januarys. She’d take me to the travel agent’s after shopping. We’d gather brochures. Hers were always sunny beaches. Spain. Mine more exotic. Places we could never afford. We never had a holiday. But we’d make plans. Pick destinations. Pick rooms. Study flight times. Tried guessing the weight our suitcases would be. Suitcases we didn’t have. Couldn’t afford even if needed. They were dreams that kept us busy on dark evenings. Someday, a stór, we’ll have money and we’ll go. We knew we never would. But dreaming was good. Sharing the dreams, better.

That day I remembered us going to watch the marching bands on Bodenstown Sunday in the 70s. Mainly bands from the North. The players would rest between tunes. But the drummers kept up a marching beat. Drums so loud I’d cover my ears. Then the leader would toss the baton high in the air and they’d begin again. And (young) Rody MacCorley goes to die / On the Bridge of Toome today. The words meant little, but the music and the beat was uplifting. The colours. We cheered and waved at the kilted pipers. As we always did. A shot was fired! Women screamed. Men ran. Scuffles. Someone fell. Was he shot? A car was overturned. Set alight. A Dhia, I didn’t think they’d bring it down here she cried. Why? Shur we’re all the same. Why don’t they know that? I was slapped against the bridge wall. My cheek bloodied by the stonework. Covered by her coat. Covered by her. Smothered. Pressed to her bosom. In case there was another shot. She’d take it. Not me.

That day I remembered other music. Music she loved. Ag Críost an síol, ag Críost an Fómhar, In iothlainn Dé go dtugtar sinn. She’d hum it. Never sing it. Songs of her god. Songs of other things too. My first smile that day was remembering how she was so taken with one then in the charts - Brim Full of Asha by Cornershop. Everybody Needs A Bosom For A Pillow / Everybody Needs A Bosom. I remembered how she’d protected me with hers and realised I’d none now. No emotional pillow. My smile turned to tears again.

That day I cursed her god. Why so cruel? There was some money now. She could go to Spain if she wanted. Not that she would. Her house had just been renovated. Comforts she’d never had before. Mod-cons to do the work. Not that she used them much. Just five short months to enjoy it. Then her god did that? And to one yet so young. With so much more to give.

That day was exactly ten years ago today. The memories of it are still vivid. The memories of the years before it have come flooding back. That’s all I have. Just memories. No real keepsakes. Possessions meant nothing to her. Things didn’t matter. Where’s the new electric kettle I got ya gone? Ah, so-and-so’s one broke, so I gave her a lend of it. Shur I’ll be grand with the auld one ’til she brings it back. She won’t, you know. ‘Tis only a kettle. She needs it more than I do. Ara, doesn’t matter, a leana. People mattered. Especially children. That day I arranged her funeral. In the house of her god, as she would have wanted. The one outside whose gates she had fallen and breathed her last mere seconds after I’d seen her. There would be children bringing the gifts. Children doing the readings. The prayers. Singing. So what if they cried at the pulpit and couldn’t read? So what if they let the offerings fall with the shaking? So what if they sang with hoarse voices? I would would be crying, shaking and hoarse too. Everyone who knew her would. I was. They were. Today, ten years later, I still am.

Mo mháthairín, cinnte. Ach ár mháthair freisin. For that she was to everyone who knew her.

First off, forget agencies if at all possible. A recent survey conducted by Primal Sneeze Marketing Research of 14.5 lads (Mick spent half his time in the bookies’) in the pub showed that a staggering 93.2% viewed recruitment cuntsultants as wankers. 6.8% said fuking wankers. Furthermore, 14.8% of those questioned believed in the Easter Bunny and 54.7% did not believe the barman was really that busy when he said your pint is important to me, please hold.

Responding to an article published here last April on the subject of agencies, Mr. MacDara in the Leb pointed out that he always finds them as useful as the cardboard roll at the end of toilet paper. Sometimes you just have no choice but to use it. But if you do have to, always remember they do not wuuve you and you are not, despite their insistence, important to them - a recruitment cuntsultant’s promises are as genuine as a whore’s kiss or a barman’s welcome.

Right. Now that we have that sorted we’ll move on to how you do get work. It is all to do with knowing someone and being in the right place at the right time. An unscientific method and one not easily mastered. I call it PLUCK - People and Luck. Let’s look at a case study.

Last week Tommy the forklift importer dropped by to enquire if I would take on a project for him. I’d done something similar for his cousin’s company and he recommended me to Tommy. I know the cousin for years - we are from the same pub. Related through drink you might say. But, see? People.

We chatted for a while and his attention was caught by the tasty work Lar the painter was doing for me. Would Lar would be available to do a few rooms for him? I left the two of them to make a deal and went to see how the electrician, Stephen, was getting on. See? Luck - Lar was in the right place at the right time.

What I didn’t know was Lar had already been in luck - the electrician had already booked him to do his hall, stairs and landing. Tommy didn’t mind waiting a week or so as he needed to get an electrician to do a few bits before the painter could start. I introduced him to Stephen.

He would be free in a day or so. He had a job to do at Lar’s wife’s office first, part of which involved relocating network cables. By the way, could I help him with that for a few quid?

While this case study (all true, by the way) deals with the self-employed, the same applies to the employed. Don’t bother your bum with agencies (see above). Don’t bother answering newspaper ads - most companies won’t even acknowledge your application. Your online applications will be acknowledged instantly - by a machine. Machines, like agencies, couldn’t give a rat’s rectum about you. Machines, like agencies, forget about you instantly unless you keep pushing their buttons.

All worthwhile work comes through contacts - people you know or meet. Fact. 9 out of 10 cats agree.

Next week will be mad busy, says I to meself. Pop down to Little Britain and pick up the doings for a big stew or something that I can knock up quickly and will do me a few days.

And so I proceeded to pop. But I couldn’t do any picking or knocking because Little Britain was closed. Closed as it was Easter Sunday. Why in the name of the wife of the unknown soldier and her seven sniffling sprats would the country’s largest grocery chain close just because it is Easter? The bookies have to close by law - I knew that. Was there a law that shops have to close too? No, there couldn’t be. The small local shop was opened, as was the smaller unlocal one.

But I wasn’t going to do any picking in the small shops. No way was I paying over the odds just for the convenience of a convenience store. Even if the produce was organically grown by Tibetan monks in the arsehole of Longford. Even if it was cheap at half the price or whatever slogan they were using this week. No, I would leave the knocking for another day and take something out of the freezer instead.

Things boded well. The lid of the container had embossed the trademark on the casserole. Well most of the letters anyway. Tub-bits had become T its. Sweet! Now there was food I could look forward to getting lips around.

Frozen food, as any scientist worth their NaCl will tell you, exhibits properties not dissimilar to kettles and pots - it won’t defrost if watched. So the best thing to do was tip out for a couple of pints to pass the time. Tipping out for pints is the best Irish pastime ever.

- Ah how ya getting on, Primal? What’s with ya?

- Not a whole lot. Just defrosting tits for me dinner. Look Left seemed a bit puzzled.

- Right so. I prefer a bit of steak meself, but shur whatever yer having yerself.

- I’ll have a pint so. Thanks. And I scooted out to the jacks before he could say another word.

Returning to the bar I noticed the service gates to the pub were open so being the civic spirited gent that I am I let the barman know.

- Listen, Seán - do ya know your back passage is wide open?

- Thanks, Primal. I’ll close it now before I forget. Last thing we want is a draught upsetting the smokers in the beer garden.

Uproarious laughter from Tony Two Lines, much to the chagrin of Look Left.

- It’s not funny, Tony. That was a major security risk. Anyone could’ve got in. We could have been murdered on our barstools.

Uproarious laughter x 100.

And so continued the giddiness until it was time to return home to room temperature tits. A good day overall. Very enjoyable. I suppose I should thank the folks in Little Britain, but first I want to ask them why they were closed. Why? Why? Why? The Easter Bunny died on the cross so we all could have chocolate eggs. He didn’t die cross so shops could close.

Cheating is allowed - you can vote as often as you like. Which means it’s not really cheating then I suppose.

The road had the odd pothole and the edges sloped toward the ditch in places. Overall it wasn’t a bad road but using it demanded care and attention - you had to drive not just steer; you had to watch out for holes not just pedal; you had to be ready to hop up on the bank on narrow stretches not just stroll.

Then came the Ryder Cup circus. I’ve written about that farce before and told you of the infrastructure upgrades that were hastily made at great expense. The road I mention was one of those upgraded.

When I say upgraded, I mean resurfaced, widened marginally and lined. It wasn’t upgraded to a higher route type. It remains a local link road not a regional or national route.

The Council engineers I chatted with at the time gave me the see what great things we are doing for you look. I gave them the you are destroying my neighbourhood look back. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t see the long term consequences.

Where once there was a grass bank a walker could take refuge on, now there was nothing but an impenetrable hedge. Where once there were narrow stretches that compelled motorists to slow down, now there was no natural traffic calming. Where once there were humps and hollows and a few potholes, now there was a smooth flat surface. But the bends remained. The budget didn’t stretch to straightening works. Nor did it stretch to providing footpaths or cycle lanes. Why would they do that anyway? It was still a local/link route.

It had become a traffic-friendly road if there is such a thing. Cyclists and pedestrians beware. Of course, this is what the National Roads Authority intended all along - a route (a rat-run, albeit a long one) that would connect two motorways, the M7 and M4, and alleviate congestion on the M50.

And of course, the NRA didn’t say this publicly. They couldn’t be seen to condone the use of route unsuitable for that purpose. But they wouldn’t have to. The truckers would cotton on to it very quickly and they did. The HGV traffic quadrupled within weeks. The car drivers took a little longer to cop on. The white van drivers, the least bright of the bunch, followed.

The volumes and speeds shot through the roof. Residents who once had recessed entrances had had them shaved off by the widening. Their visibility when driving out their gateways was reduced, and in many cases, non-existent. The bends were still there and within seconds of driving onto a clear road they would have traffic on their tail blowing horns while they tried to pick up speed. The Gardaí could do nothing. Proving that someone was speeding is one thing, but proving they were driving at an inappropriate speed is all but impossible.

On one stretch of just 1km there were 20 houses. The residents complained bitterly about the situation. But as is commonplace in Ireland the bitter complaining is done over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

When the County Council advertised it was accepting submissions from the public as part of a review of county-wide speed limits only one of these residents responded. Me.

Within weeks the 1km stretch was designated a 60km/h zone and the signs erected. The traffic speed didn’t reduce. Irish drivers ignore them. Many never see them. Of the residents of the 20 houses, some have not yet seen these signs. A full year later and having told them where to look more than once they still claim not to have seen them. Yet the bitter complaining continues over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

With eyes wide shut, the only way to alert drivers to these speed limits is to have the Gardaí enforce them. They were always too busy. Until this week that is. I suppose that after 7 near fatal accidents caused by speeding within 12 months in 60km/h zone they realised something was wrong.

They had a squad car stationed on and off over a few days. They had an unmarked one other times though it was obvious what it was with a Garda in uniform beside it. These were the warnings to motorists. We are watching you. Slow down or we’ll get nasty. And they did. Get nasty, not slow down.

A battered white van pulled in at my entrance and Officer Dibble got out. A gatso van. Did I mind if he parked there for random periods over the next few weeks? Of course I didn’t. None of the residents would object to him using their entrances. We would all welcome it. It was about time something was being done. Once the word gets out about a speed-trap the traffic clams. For a few months anyway. A few months respite.

I was wrong about one thing.

- Fuk you, Sneeze! You are some bollix, screamed my neighbour - one of the 20 residents. Why’d ya let them bloody guards stop at your gate?

- Why wouldn’t I, Ian. Shur I was delighted to see them. I’m pissed off with wankers blowing me off the road when I’m trying to get in or out. You were giving out about the same yourself the other day. Maybe they’ll slow down now.

- You’re a fekin informer that’s what ya are. Licking up to the guards. I’m trying to do a days work. I can’t be crawling along all the time in the lorry or I’d never turn a shilling.

- Jayzez, Ian, you were glad of the guards the night your young lad heard men downstairs and yourself and herself were out in the pub.

- That’s different. They should be out catching fellas robbing and selling drugs and not giving out speeding fines to a decent man trying to feed his family.

Below is this morning’s 3 Day Outlook from Met Éireann, the Irish National Meteorological Service.

It will remain cold and unsettled for the rest of the Easter weekend. Good Friday night will be very cold, with a mixture of clear spells and scattered wintry showers. Frost and a risk of icy patches also. Holy Saturday will remain very cold, with sunny spells and occasional showers. Some of the showers may be heavy and of hail, with a risk of thunder. Some showers of sleet or even snow are possible on mountains. Breezy, with moderate northerly winds. Frosty for a time on Saturday night, but less cold conditions, with outbreaks of rain or sleet, will develop during the night and there is a slight risk of snow, mainly over high ground. Easter Sunday will be mostly cloudy at first, with outbreaks of rain and drizzle, clearing from the north to sunny spells and scattered showers. Some of the showers may turn wintry later. Frost on Easter Sunday night. Easter Monday may have a few sunny spells, especially in eastern areas at first. Cloudier in the west, with outbreaks of rain, tending to become more widespread.

Earlier in the week there were predictions for Holy Thursday.

Met Éireann is attached to the Department of the Environment, Heritage and Local Government. It is an official government service.

Whether we like it or not, the State it seems, wants us all to be Christians. Or she believes in a Christian climate. Weather - you like it or not, I don’t like the forecast for this country.