Last week was one of those weeks where seven days weren’t enough to get through all that had to be done. One of those weeks when I’m make a plan of action for the day at 5, and by 7 it would be all changed. I hate that. I hate that as much as I hate leaving voice mail. Yeah, that much.

It’s not like me be disorganised like that. I’m not that kind of spanner. No sir, I’m the kind of spanner who plans everything meticulously and beats himself up if he doesn’t produce the goods before the deadline. So why did I allow things go awry?

Well, money mainly. See, most of what needed doing last week was for myself or free gratis for others. But to survive a week of doing stuff for nothing you need money. Money puts beer on the counter, milk in the hotpress and fresh towels in the fridge - the latter two are usually a result of too much of the former. So when billable jobs came in, I went at them like a pig at a spud.

One of those was on the Monday. I spent an hour with a client making a list of maintenance work she wanted done. I ended the meeting with my standard two questions: When do you need this done by? Any item(s) on the list you would like done before then? Her answers were this day week and none. Fine.

Tuesday morning, she mailed me asking can we get that done today? Now my normal reply would be something along the lines of as sure as there is hair on your balls, girl, we can. But this time I agreed. Fresh towels in the fridge remember. So Tuesday was lost, but I had a cheque in my hand on Wednesday. I bought milk for the hotpress.

The free gratis work was mainly for a family member. Recently home after a long stay in Scrubs and now with a permanent feeding tube, there was much to be done in that house. Collecting and making space for a month’s supply of 2l plastic containers of food. Learning how to use new electronic gadgets. Disposing of utensils that could no longer be used. Organising medication in liquid form. Swabs to stop an unused mouth drying out. Creams to prevent unused lips chapping. More trips to the chemist than a methadone patient.

Walls chipped by the guys delivering the new equipment to be repaired and repainted. Furniture to be moved to make room for a new, and much larger, wheelchair. TVs to be remounted to suit the new furniture layout.

Other, seemingly minor, worries to be sorted. The Council have changed the refuse collection from weekly to fortnightly and the recycle one from monthly to fortnightly too. (Saving themselves 12 trips per year while telling the public of the improved service). But the empty food containers are not accepted by them for recycling so they have to go in the regular bin which will be filled in a week. Work out a way to get rid of the rest of the empties for me, will ya. (I intend delivering them in person to the County Council office foyer - I’ll let you know what happens. If I’m not jailed).

The whole week was a mess. I didn’t get half of my own stuff done. So on Friday I popped by to see my little buddies, Sean and Oisín, for some chill out time. They always cheer me up. Mam and Dad wanted to pop out for a while - would I mind staying with the lads? No problem. Just back from a short holiday they needed to do some food shopping. Don’t forget milk for the hotpress, I warned.

After a big feed of sticky goo, a dribble of puke and a satisfying belch, Oisín nodded off on his mat, dreaming of boobs or whatever it is babies dream of. Seán, exhausted from protecting me from swipers (?) with a light-sabre, drifted off on the couch, probably dreaming of his new hobby, digging up worms.

I booted up Mam’s laptop to see what I’d been missing in blogland. I read Eolaí’s post about his son. I looked over at the two sleeping terrors. A shiver ran down my spine at the thoughts of being denied access to them. They aren’t my kids but it would break my heart not to be able to see them again. I can only imagine what it would be like if they were mine. I can only imagine what Eolaí’s going through.

Putting things in perspective, I had a great week in comparison. Last week’s to-do list is now this week’s to-do list, but so what. If things go well, I’ll get something done. There may even be beer on the counter come Friday. Whether there is or not, I can always drop by to get intoxicated by the antics of my two little buddies. Eolaí has had sobriety forced upon him.

I don’t like Fridays. I hate Fridays. Fridays are when people remember what they needed done during the week but forgot to ask about. They clear their desks of that niggly chore that’s been on their to-do list since Monday and swamp mine. Friday gone was no different and I was running around like a blue bottomed member of the family diptera. Running around and worrying that Friday beer-time was slipping away. Beer-time didn’t happen. Friday should be Funday not Fukday.

Saturday was no better. A call from the builder. A truck would be arriving to take away his portacabin. Could I dismantle the temporary gates to let it drive straight in so as not to rip up the newly laid yard surface? Of course, Bob, right away, I replied. (I call the builder Bob because that’s his name). As I hung up, I heard the truck. Already in the yard. Doing 27-point turns and churning the hardcore into a badly ploughed field.

Driver! I yelled. Stop! Stop! Don’t go into the … garden. Too late. Now I had a yard fit to grow spuds in and a 40t truck planted 30cm deep in muck. Christ did you not heard me shouting? Did you not see me waving at you to stop? I’ll get out no bother once the weight of the portacabin is on the back.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. The only thing to do was to flag down a passing truck and hope it could pull him out. The first two sped by, the drivers averting their eyes. No way were they getting involved. The third stopped. Howya? Howya gettin’ on? Grand mornin’. Mild one isn’t it. It is alright. A right one. Listen. Could ya give yer man a tug out? No English. No speak English. Peadar Murphy, now seeing the carnage, suddenly became Pavel Murkowski and drove off.

The fourth truck obliged and the 40t was harvested. I stood by with a spade and waterhose to help clean the wheels. I didn’t get a chance. Both drivers pulled out onto the road and sped away with more muck flying than you’d see at the Mahon Tribunal. I spent the next half hour scraping up sods and tossing them over the hedge, all the while being angrily honked at by the very speeding motorists I was trying to prevent crashing. Wankers!

That afternoon I realised no mail from my Topmail account had been arriving for weeks. (With about 12 email accounts, it is easy not notice one isn’t working. I’m right, amn’t I?) Tomail is an ultra secure system and the latest enhancement, it would seem, has made it too secure. Once fixed, 40 odd mails popped into my inbox. Some odder than others.

I’d missed a monster thread about drinks the night before some awards thing or other. I’d missed a mail from the Hallowed Halls of Bockschloβ about some awards thing or other. I’d missed an incredibly well researched mail from Towers gan Fhéile, listing all the transport options I would have to and from drinks the night before some awards thing or other, should I wish to partake. I’d missed a mail from Castillo del Niña Problemo reminding me about lunch the day after some awards thing or other. There was only time for some hasty replies and apologies, then I rushed off to an evening in the company of Oisín and his older brother, Seán. All going well, I would get time for more replies and maybe catch some coverage of some awards thing or other after I got them to sleep.

A slow waltz around the kitchen with Oisín in my arms usually does the trick. Not tonight. While I was doing my best Fred Astaire, Oisín had more of a Riverdance thing going on. But the high kicks, jigs and reels eventually tired him out and 15 minutes later he was sleeping like a teenager.

Seán was availing of his allotted 30 minutes of TV and I availed of the break to browse the paper. I scanned a review by Colin Murphy of Twenty’s book. A great many of these bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits. Many, particularly those interested in the latter, do so under cover of a pseudonym. Do I? Do we? Did I ever mention my toilet habits? Did you? Maybe we should if that’s what’s required of us? I’d have to read more of this.

First, get Seán to bed. The very mention of bed to Seán is like a red rag to a bull. Or worse, a wet rag to an electrician.

[Begin special section for Colin Murphy →

The three-year-old reluctantly made his visit to the toilet; did his business; washed his hands; donned his jammies; brushed his teeth; had to be dissuaded from trying to open a pack of tampons so he could clean his ears; went to bed. He suffered a flash dump minutes later and the whole procedure had to be repeated, with the added thrill of a shower and changing bedclothes this time.

Sorry Mr. Murphy - this is the best I can do for the moment. The next time I have an interesting toilet habit of my own to share, you'll be the first to hear.

← End special section for Colin Murphy]

I had read on Íomhá an Lae that some awards thing or other would be streamed live and decided to check it out. It might be interesting - Íomhá an Lae was up for an award for use of the Irish language, as I was. Why my blog was in that category, I can’t fathom. There were other mysteries to solve too. But I couldn’t access the stream. Not to worry, I might still be meeting the best storyteller the Net has ever seen for lunch the following day and she’d fill me in on proceedings - despite having missed a million mails for same.

On Sunday morning I expectantly donned my glad rags (i.e. a clean shirt) and was about to call her hotel when I got word a family member wasn’t well. The doctor had been. For overseas readers, let me explain that getting a doctor out of hours in Ireland is like owning a mansion - very few are that lucky and those that are pay a fortune for the privilage. Would he have to go to hospital? No. The doctor was against that. From past experience they would poke and prod and try things that would make him worse. Then a week later they would send for his file, read it and announce ah, yes, now that’s what we should have been doing. But there was a prescription to be filled if I didn’t mind. Of course I didn’t.

Now, how to find a pharmacy open on a Sunday. In the nearest town some band together and take it in turns. But they don’t put a sign in the window saying whose turn it is so you just drive around in hope. One always opens. Between 11:00 and 14:00. That was for sure and even though the drugs were needed urgently, I waited until then and was standing outside at 11:00 on the button. They opened promptly at 11:25.

Can I have this in liquid form? He can’t swallow pills the way he is now. The chemist checked the computer and told me the liquid form was only licensed for use in hospitals. Buy why? It’s the same AI, I argued, tabs are no good - he can’t swallow them! What age is the child? Eh, 40. Sorry, tabs is all I can give you. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow when the HSE offices are open. We can apply for an exemption. How long will that take? An hour, a week, a month, never - depends on who answers the phone.

So I came out of there with medication that couldn’t be used, the taxpayer had paid for and damn all faith in the HSE.

I think I deserve an award for worst weekend and you deserve one for perseverance if you’ve managed to read all of this.

I got a call yesterday. One I was expecting really. An elderly relation had just passed away.

She reared a large family and I have always been close to them, but closer to one in particular. I let things settle for an hour after his brother had broken the news to me then phoned him.

- Howya. Ya all right? Larry called me with the news.

- I’m grand. Why? What news?

[Panic! What do I do now? What do I say? Two big size nines straight into my gob. Think quick, Primal]

- Hello! Hello! Can you hear me? … You’re cracking up on me. … This phone’s shite … If ya can hear me I’m going to move down the road … see can I get a signal … call you back … five minutes.

I hung up. Shaking. What happened there? I began to doubt myself. Did I get Larry’s message wrong? Was the woman still alive and just because I was expecting to get a particular phone call that’s what I heard?

No I couldn’t have gotten it wrong. Larry never rings me. Why else would he ring me now? No, I did hear right.

I was refusing to believe the glaringly obvious. In such a big family someone always gets left out. Larry probably assumed Máire rang Pat. Máire probably assumed Fran had.

But what was I to do now? Do I call Larry back? Do I call Pat and tell him he should phone home? I decided to let it go. No matter who I phoned it would spark a row. I just had to hope Pat would put two and two together. He did. And while he guessed the news, at least he didn’t officially hear it from me.

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 tale of two hedges continues.

They were cut, front and back, despite my protestations, a couple of weeks ago. They look so bare and pitiable, like Britney, it brings a tear to my eye.

What couldn’t be cut was two large tress. One is an ash and will look great, if a bit lonely, given time. Like Britney. The other was a hawthorn bush that lost the run of itself, got notions beyond its station, and grew into a tree. A big ugly, gnarly, ivy encrusted monster. Like an Ent, but without the smarts. And, unlike Ents, without the ability to move.

But it wasn’t bothering me much. Live and let live. It has roots in this place as I do.

All was well until Sunday when I had two unexpected visitors. Pat and Elaine are what are known in Ireland as mickey-relations. No blood ties, but are vaguely related to someone who is (probably vaguely) married to someone vaguely related to me. You know they way it is. Relations who are your nearest and dearest when they want something.

Elaine rang ahead to say she would be stopping by to see how the building was coming along. Ten minutes later Pat called to say he was in the area and ask if I needed bread or milk. That’s a very Irish thing - even if you are visiting the house of a celiac vegan you still offer to bring bread and milk.

Oh, that’s fine extension, lauded Pat. A right one, added his sister. Pity about that auld tree there. If it falls, it’ll hit the house. I agreed, but pointed out it would only clip a few slates and that I’d cut it down if I seen it about to topple.

Well I have a chainsaw in the jeep if you’d like to get rid of it now. Shur it’ll only take a few minutes. I’m not one to look a gift chainsaw in the mouth so I gave the go-ahead.

True to his word, Pat had the tree felled in minutes and we set about cutting it up into manageable blocks. That’s great, Pat. I’ll be able to get rid of them during the week. Well if you want, offered Elaine, I’ve a big boot on my car and I could take them away. They’d probably burn in my fire once they’ve rotted a bit. Okay, shur work away then.

My neighbour noticed the missing tree the next day. Pat and Elaine turned up out of the blue and took it, I explained. Would they not just take tea and biscuits? He went away chuckling to himself leaving me wondering who had done who the favour.