No, this is not a sad tale about an immigrant separated from their loved one. It’s about common or garden poles. Ones that began life as trees, were cut down, stripped bare, coated in creosote, returned to an upright position and left to support an electricity cable for the rest of their natural deaths.

They are everywhere. If you live in the sticks like me you probably have one of your own - commonly in the garden, hence the reference above.

They are the life blood of Irish politics when once every five years they clothed in posters. No lost animal would ever be found unless its picture appeared on one. The local crash repairs service would be out of business. And there is the small matter of them delivering power to our homes. We just don’t appreciate them.

Well, not until they aren’t there. Or are there, but you want them over there instead. Such is my case.

The one in my garden is right smack on the corner of the new extension. This fact was discovered in June using theodolites, lasers, sticks and pieces of twine - all very high tech. It had to be moved. Forms were filled and posted. A follow up call was made to the local ESB office a week later. Now the ESB, being one of the few remaining semi-state bodies to be privatised, are duty bound to act as civil servants. And they performed admirably by losing the forms. They lost the second set too, but thankfully a portal opened in the space time continuum that is officialdom and the original ones reappeared. All very Dirk Gently.

But they couldn’t process them. Since the ESB took it upon themselves to redraw their operational districts, the pole in question was 50metres outside the boundary of the local office area. So instead of dealing with an office 8km away we would have to contact one 60km further afield. The builder realised the impending difficulties associated with being the furthest customer from their base and summed up the situation succinctly: We are f*cked!

By now it was too late to pull the old builder’s trick: accidentally knocking the pole while digging foundations, paying the €300 fine and having the ESB crew who would come to restore supply position the replacement pole appropriately. Not that we would have done that of course. Why that would be dishonest. Right?

The third set of forms were submitted and to our surprise and engineer arrived on site almost immediately. Well one month later, which in civil service terms is instant. Kitted out in a shiny white hard hat and spotless hi-viz he surveyed the scene, wrote things in an important looking book and promised immediate action.

More forms, a hefty four figure cheque and four months later a crew came and erected a new pole.

While all this form filling, losing things, finding things and writing in important looking books was going on the actual building work came to a halt. The ground workers couldn’t finish. So the bricklayers couldn’t finish, neither could the roofers. Because they couldn’t finish, the electricians, the plasters, the painters and the candlestick makers were all stood down. So much for it being ready by Christmas.

The really annoying thing is the foreman on the crew that actually did the work said his team hadn’t been overly busy of late and had the work order arrived on his desk any time in the last few months he could have had the job done within days. Isn’t it an awful pity the lad digging the foundations didn’t clip the pole by accident. It would have cost you a few quid but look at the time you’d have saved, he grinned.

A close family member of mine has a long term illness. One that is incurable and, in his case, worsening. By now, and aged just 40, his bladder has failed, his speech is incoherent, he has movement in only one hand. He needs the 24 hour care afforded to babies - dressing, washing, changing, feeding. There’s more, but you get the picture.

As he suffering from one of a list of prescribed diseases or disabilities, to use the HSE term, he holds a long term illness book. This entitles him to the drugs, medicines and medical and surgical aids and appliances prescribed for that disease free of charge. Note the caveat there: prescribed for that disease

So what does that mean and how does it work? Well, his doctor enters the type and quantity of drugs he prescribes into the book. Then some official in the HSE checks that those drugs are on the list for that disease and rubber stamps it. Once approved, any pharmacy can dispense what’s needed. Great!

But sometimes they are not approved. Why? Well they will have been certified safe by the Medical Board but no official has gotten around to deciding they are suitable for his particular ailment. So what happens then? Well his wife, doctor, specialist, chemist, bin-man, soothsayer, everyone! fights to have them put on his book. In the meantime, they have to be paid for.

Now I hear someone reminding me about the community drugs scheme whereby no-one pays more than €85 in any calender month for approved prescribed medicines. Yes, but €85 is a lot when your disability or long term illness benefit is less than €200 a week, out of which you need to buy the regular stuff and pay the regular bills we all do. Then on top of that there are extra expenses like paying a carer for the additional hours worked above the 20 covered by the HSE.

Note that the description of what is covered by this book doesn’t mention things we would all assume like doctor visits. It doesn’t cover hospital fees. If he gets the flu he has to pay to see his doctor and for whatever antibiotics he prescribes. If he breaks an arm he must pay the A&E charges. The time his bladder failed and he needed surgery he got a hospital bill for €500.

Most of you won’t believe this. I know you won’t because no-one ever does. They think (and excuse the pun) I’m making some sick joke. How could someone so ill be treated like this?

So what’s the solution? A medical card. That covers doctors, hospitals and whatever medicines they, or other health workers, prescribe.

So why doesn’t he have one? Well he does … most years. Not all. It is reviewed every year based on income and every year, coupled with his wife’s, their combined income is over the limit by a few euro. And yes, they do count his state benefits in this calculation. Every year his application is refused and has to be appealed based on the expenses he would be expected to incur such as doctor and hospital visits and medicines not listed on his long term illness book.

Some years the appeal fails. Others it it successful. But each year the rigmarole is the same: Send in the application. Two weeks later expect a response. None comes. Make a phone call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it. A week later phone again. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. Two weeks later. Get the refusal notice. Send off the appeal. Wait two weeks. Make a call. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. A week later. Make another call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it right now. Wait a few days. Make yet another call. Well, we can’t proceed until you supply us with such-and-such document. Insist that it was sent. Well maybe we lost it. Ask how they could lose it when everything was stapled together. Maybe when it was being photocopied. Say there would have been no need to photocopy anything as you provided copies to save them doing it. Oh, look. Here it is on my desk. I will get to work on this immediately. Ask if you can call tomorrow for news. Oh, I don’t work Wednesdays or Thursdays. Call Friday. Call Friday and there’s something else. And so on and so on and so on.

While all this is going on, he has to pay the doctor, chemist and so on. This year is no different. That last I heard, the appeal is at the maybe we lost it stage. In the meantime, while all this was going on, and order for a speech aid (and some other items) that took 8 months to get approved, has been cancelled by some official in the HSE’s purchasing department. Why? Because the computer says he has no medical card. When If he gets the card back he can reapply. Another 8 months.

There are benefits and structures in place to assist him and others like him. There are doctors, nurses, chemists, therapists, wives, husbands, kids, carers, bin-men, soothsayers, you name it, all working long and hard to help him. Yet the whole thing collapses when some jumped up little official in a suit that doesn’t rhyme doesn’t know how to or can’t/won’t do the job they’re paid to do. These people are the real sickness the HSE needs to deal with. These are the cancer in the system.

A woman over the road from me inherited the house when her folks passed away years ago. With the kids getting bigger, she and her husband decided it might be a good time to build on the room or two they were dithering over.

They, or rather she, as the property is in her name, had only minor difficulties getting planning permission. Just the usual move the boundary in 2 metres to facilitate road widening lark, which as we all know means, if you want permission then donate your land now so we don’t have to pay you for it later if we ever decide to upgrade the road.

Getting a loan wouldn’t be a problem either. Her mortgage broker assured her that given their combined salaries it would be plain sailing. They later rang to say it had been approved and would come through soon.

A builder was hired and work began. After all, the mortgage money would arrive any day.

After a couple of weeks she became a bit concerned and called the broker.
- Oh, we’re just waiting on you to send us the letter from your current or last mortgage provider, that’s all.
- Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were waiting on me to do something?
- Ah shur, it’s standard practice. Everyone knows it. So just get us the letter and we’re flying.
- I can’t get a letter. I never had a mortgage before.
- Well can you get a letter from them to say that?
- From whom?
- From your last mortgage provider, of course.
- Listen to me closely: I never, ever, ever had a mortgage before.
- That’s very strange. Are you sure? You are 38 according to the computer. You must have had one. Are you making a mistake?
- Look, I never had one. I inherited this house.
- Oh, I see. Hold on. I’ll have to check with my boss. … … … He says you have to get a letter from a solicitor or commissioner for oaths to say you never had a mortgage.
- Is it really necessary? Solicitors are expensive.
- Oh, you have to do it because the mortgage crowd think you had a mortgage before.
- Why would they think that?
- Because I ticked the form to say you had. You are 38 after all.

It went on. And on. And on. And she had to go to a solicitor. The builder pulled plant when he learned his first payment wasn’t coming. She’s up the walls. Though not of the new part of the house. They aren’t built yet. Winter’s coming and they may not be built this side of Christmas. And there was she thinking that dealing with the civil service would be the hard part.

Back in March I wrote about some of my experiences volunteering with a charity and how some recipients of aid expect, and take, more than their fair share to the detriment of the genuine. Without fear, I called them wheelchair-wankers. Go read that post if you don’t remember it.

The day I wrote it I was setting out on a 2 hour drive to deliver fixtures and fittings to a respite home. A home funded by the Kildare branch of the charity at great expense. I’ve been there a few times since to put in a washing machine and dryer, assemble garden furniture and other odd jobs. And I must say I’m impressed. Located in a beautiful area of Wexford, it is fully wheelchair accessible and equipped with everything a body could need. Even cleaning materials and linen are provided. Visitors need only bring food, toiletries and clothing. A cleaner comes by a few times a week so no-one need worry about heavy chores like hoovering or washing floors. Even though not required, the cleaner runs errands and acts as local tour guide.

The rules for booking are simple. Up until the end of May only members of the local branch may put their names down for a week’s stay. Fair enough. After all, it was the local branch that paid for it. Thereafter, if there are free slots remaining, members from other branches can avail of them. No-one is charged a cent. All that is asked is that they move in after 3pm on the Saturday and vacate before noon the following one; that they replace anything they break; that they leave it as clean and tidy as their level of ability allows.

I happened to be there the day a lady arrived assisted by her sister, Mary. Susan hadn’t had a holiday for five years or so, more out of fear of being out of her environment although money played a part too. To see the joy on her face, her eyes light up and a tear appear made all those long drives worthwhile. She and I sat for an hour drinking tea and swapping dirty jokes while Mary busied herself about the place. It was only when I got home I was told that Sue’s sister Mary was also Sister Mary which explained why she excused herself to go dress the bed a number of times. There was me thinking she had OCD or something.

Most visitors were like Susan and ranted and raved about what an excellent facility is was and what a wonderful time they’d had. But just like the Tayto ad, there’s always one.

A woman from the Dublin branch booked the last week in July. She phoned later to change this to the first week in August. But that slot was already taken. But I have to go in August. I got a letter from Wexford County Council and my meeting with them about building a house is in August not July like I thought. She was insistent that the person booked for August swap. Fair play to the co-ordinator she didn’t give in. If someone was merely using the facility as free accommodation she would not jump through hoops for them.

When she moved in that Saturday in July (obviously having rescheduled her personal business with the council) the phone calls began. The garden seats are not where I’d like them and some idiot has chained them in place. The idiot (the one writing this) chained them to prevent them being stolen on the advice of the locals she was told. The cleaner has a key and can arrange to reposition them. Well ring her to come over. She’d better come now because I’m going out soon.

Two or three phone calls each day for the week. The kettle was too small. The place was too far from the beach and somewhere closer should have been bought instead. There was no washing line and she didn’t like using dryers. The local shop had a poor selection of foodstuffs and was expensive. Sunday mass was at 10 and she was used to going at 11.

The best was when she called to say she couldn’t fall asleep until dawn for fear of a break in. They all know around here that I’m disabled and I’m an easy target. People have come to the door. Explaining to her that in a small community everyone would know that a charity had bought the place, and that the locals were being kind by popping by to check that someone less able than themselves was okay, didn’t calm her.

A short while later it was noticed that a set of keys was missing. She had them. I held on to them for when I go back the end of August. The co-ordinator asked if was saying she’d like to book that week. I did book. It must have been with the other girl. There is no other girl. It was clear what her intention was. Given the bad summer, the place was idle a lot of weeks. We began to wonder if she’d been letting herself in when she was down for her council meetings. But we couldn’t tell for sure and the cleaner hadn’t noticed so she was allotted the week.

The cleaner called in a panic yesterday. The woman hadn’t left. In fact she had said her daughter and her kids were coming down and they’d be staying until Wednesday. But a man and his wife were arriving that afternoon. Repeated phone calls from the co-ordinator went unanswered. A call from my mobile (a number she would not have recognised) was answered immediately. But it’s September now. It’s out of season. I thought no-one else would be using it. But they are and you must vacate immediately she was told. Well I suppose I’ll have to then. My daughter will be here in a few minutes and just will have to turn around and take me straight back home. This is all very inconvenient. It is unacceptable and I will be making a complaint to head office about the way I’m being treated.

Now if there was ever a case for a good kick up the arse this is it. Even if it has to be administered through the seat of a wheelchair I’m volunteering. She didn’t return the keys this time either so I will be going down to change the locks this week. I’ll do the kicking on the way back. After a four hour drive on the N11, being pushed off the road by yellow reg’ed wankers, I will be so angry that I’ll have no fear of stubbing my toe on the bars of her chair.

For regular readers: This is a temporary disruption to the temporary disruption to service … because something is really bugging me.

Last year I had a visit from a local County Council official as part of Minister Dick Roche’s clean up of the electoral register. I invited her in, made tea and laid out some nice biscuits. She was cute. But as well as that, I wanted to finally get my family’s records straight.

Okay, I said, see this woman here on your list. Well that’s my mum. She’s been dead nine years now. I’ve written to, and emailed the Council in the run up to every election and referendum to tell them this. I’ve filled out forms. I’ve phoned them. Yet she’s still on the list. Can you finally put this right?

Sure, she said, writing deceased beside the name with her biro and a custard cream.

While we’re on the subject, I added, this man here. My father. He died the summer gone, so you can mark him off too and save me wasting bits and bytes and bandwidth trying to tell the Council.

Deceased was marked on her list in blue ink and dark chocolate.

Now to me, I said sitting back. I could sense her thinking this could take a while and having a slight panic attack at the thoughts of the bikkies running out.

I want to be taken off the list that’s made available to marketing companies. This is something else I’ve been trying to get the Council to do since cosmetics were called make-up. Done, she said, all pleased with her efficiency.

Then the tone changed. I knew this would happen - were down to a broken custard cream and plain digestives.

I have a question for you: You are on my list as Mr. Sneeze, in the townland of Knockadollie, Ballybeag. But we are sitting here in the townland of Knockanudder, Ballymor. Can you explain that?

Ah, I explained, it’s really simple: This is the only house on the road in Knockanudder. The Ballymor postman would have to come all the way over here for just one house. But the Ballybeag lad passes the door. So years ago, the P&T (yes, it was that long ago), decided the sensible thing to do would be for us to use a postal address of Knockadollie. Clear?

Eh, yeah. I think. Soooo, which would you prefer on the register?

At this stage, she was down to licking the wrappers so I knew she wouldn’t stay any longer, and rather than saying it didn’t matter, which might prolong things, I just said, Knockadollie’s fine.

Grand so. I’ll look after all of this. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks for your time. Oh, and the bikkies were lovely.

To make a long story longer, this week, polling cards arrived for both my parents. I got junk mail for Readers Digest. And to cap it all, I got two polling cards for myself - one for the polling station in Ballymor and one for Ballybeag.

There are now three cards, surplus to requirements, and a prize-draw entry sitting on the hall table. Any takers?

So much for Dick Roche’s big clean up. And as for the Council official - well she really took the biscuit.

ps. Normal temporary disruption now resumed.

pps. New blogroll category added to the side bar: Useful Links. First one is an Irish language spell-checker for Mozilla (Firefox/Thunderbird). Cool! Bock, Eolaí, MacKozer - you guys will love this.

Has anyone else noticed how many Irish people drop the four or five foreign words they remember from school into conversations with foreigners? And have you noticed they are always in the wrong language? A German will get bonjour and gracias. A Spaniard will get guten tag and merci. A Frenchman will get hola and danke. Latvian, Lithuanian, Polish - well, they get all of the above and maybe a go raibh maith agat thrown in.

In fairness, the Polish, being here in such numbers, do a little better. They get a cześć sometimes. If it weren’t pronounced chest, it would count as the sole occasion the correct language is used.

I think the Polish barman in my local has gotten used to it now. He’s stopped wetting himself every time a customer says danke. Although it may be due to the owner’s policy that the floor remain dry for safety reasons. I’ll get back to you on this.

Noel was in the pub on Saturday. Now Noel is not one for reading beyond the soccer headlines. His favourite joke is the one about the similarity between a battery and a woman’s butt. (It was funny the first time). He has his talents though - he can wire a plug in 6 seconds flat. Which is a useful skill given that he’s an electrician. He can also do the crossword in The Mirror in less than two hours. That is despite filling in stool for item used by an artist and heffer for young female cow, he manages to make everything fit.

Tadek held his water that afternoon although Noel insisted on paying for his pints with a cheery danke schön, das ist gut. Actually, it was more like tankie shoon, das ist good.

Pubs are like crèches - the conversation can switch from one subject to another in milliseconds for no apparent reason. Someone mentioned Cadbury’s Cream Eggs which led to Ireland’s entry in the Eurovision - They Can’t Stop The Spring, to be performed (in capital letters it would seem) by Dervish. Noel was in his element now. He knows all about Dervish and with beaming pride he explained to Tadek that he shouldn’t worry if he couldn’t understand the lyrics. They are in Irish and no-one, not even the Irish understand them.

Poor Noel not only has a problem with foreign languages, he also seems to have difficulty with the two spoken on this island.