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I'm never good at something when I try it for the first time. It's just a rule.
This rule, (more commonly referred to as 'Fionnuala's Law'), also applies to me driving.

Yes, after years of fleecing my mother, father and siblings for lifts , I have finally started to learn how to drive.

(Let's not get ahead of ourselves now, I've had two lessons - still more Spongebob than Jensen Button, unfortunately).

It's difficult though, isn't it? Well, maybe not difficult ... Just not as easy as I had initially anticipated. The first lesson was a breeze  - ambling around country lanes, Christy Moore yodelling in my ears, cruisin' at 20 miles per hour.

All that being said, where I live can't exactly be described as a built-up area - Narnia's a stone's throw away from it, so when you're the only car on the road, it's bound to be easier, isn't it?

It's all well and good being able to drive when there's no traffic on the roads, but it's entirely practical, especially with college coming up.

So, naturally, lesson two involved driving on a main road. All of a sudden things got that tad bit trickier.With roundabouts, T-junctions and drivers with road rage thrown into the equation, I was a nervous wreck. As I grappled with the steering wheel, I imagined I resembled an octopus lathered in Vaseline attempting to juggle.

(Of course, while I was imagining this, I almost crashed the car - apparently, you have to pay attention while driving?)

Road positioning's another kettle of fish altogether. "Let the white line be your guide", my driving instructor repeated, like some sort of ominous shaman chant. I was half expecting him to whip out some crystal meth and dream-catchers, but apparently that's frowned upon while driving.

You'd think it'd be easy - the lines are there for you to follow on the road. Essentially, it's Painting By Numbers. In a moving vehicle. Which can injure people.

And is there anything more shameful than that moment when the car stalls? Well, imagine doing that three times. On a roundabout. See, the truth is, I actually stalled on purpose. I was simply just stopping, momentarily, in order to embrace the roundabout and all its circular complexities. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Lesson three will involve lots of steering and positioning practice, and we'll be heading in to town. The downside of this is that, potentially, people I know will see me make a twat of myself. No pressure, eh?

So, if you see a little red learner car occasionally stalling to take in the scenery, don't angrily indicate or shake your fist because there is a strong possibility that I will cry. 

This is not a test

"Graduation?" My mam snorted incredulously. "You graduate from college, not secondary school!"

For me, however, I felt the only way to describe this incredibly melodramatic transition from student to mere mortal as a 'graduation'. As we all sat in the dining assembly crying our eyes out, (No? Just me? It's not news to ye that I'm a massive loser anyway), I found it difficult to envision life beyond the classrooms, the teachers, the students and the school that had, essentially, made me who I am. Afterwards, I joked about asking if I could stay on permanently, hidden away in a supply cupboard, content with my life as a good student.

My graduation marked the end of an incredibly challenging year for myself and my fellow Leaving Cert students. It also marked the beginning of the exams themselves. From January onwards, the stress of school, as well as other factors, built up enormously. As someone who is renowned for putting herself under a great deal of pressure when it comes to tests, the Leaving Cert just didn't seem like something I would, in the end, be physically able to do. Months of exam papers, predictions, rants, oral examinations, practicals and scouring for universities would all boil down to a week's worth of exams for me. "These are the exams that will define you and decide your future!" they told us.

I'm sorry, but that is bullshit.

As much as the SEC, your teachers and the Department of Education wants you to believe that the world is going to spontaneously stop the day you and 1 get our results - it won't. Life doesn't begin after the Leaving Cert. It never has, and it never will. In that week in August, if it turns out that I have indeed fail Maths, there is no doubt that I will be exceptionally disappointed. But I know that life will go on, and in my final hours it won't be remembered that I failed Maths in my Leaving Cert. Sure, if you can tell me all the characteristics of a desert biome, I'm thrilled for you. But the Leaving Cert doesn't measure human qualities - how funny, nice, selfless or determined you are.

I am now at a point in my life where I believe I am facing an even bigger test than the Leaving Cert itself. I am approximately half a month into my summer break, and I have found myself teetering in the middle of some kind of emotional see-saw. I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen over the next few weeks. Summer is always given such an air of importance among people my age - between its temporary nature, the good weather and the freedom, it is truly a unique time where anything is possible. For the most part, my life is now limitless - no restraints such as exams, study or school work to hold me back. What am I going to make of myself? What am I going to become?

Scary prospect, isn't it?

I'm not asking much of this summer. I want to enjoy myself, after what can only be defined as 6 months of torture. I want to spend as much time with my friends as possible, as I will going to college in Dublin and they will be facing into exams themselves. I want to drink copious amounts and inevitably puke on myself - again. I wish to attend every concert under the sun, and travel: the thoughts of spending my summer in this small (and equally small-minded) shithole feels me with dread. I will work, and, in turn, waste spend all my money on frivolous items. I am not a person who buys into the idea of having 'no regrets'. My whole life is basically a tidy collection of regrets big and small. I can only hope that I won't add too many more to my list this summer. I want to laugh loudly and not have to be sorry about it. I want this summer to teach me more about the world and myself than 5 years of education ever could.

This summer will be the ultimate learning curve. As a 17 year old with a seven year old mind with a fantastic memory, but lacking in 'street smarts', I need to learn my place, and ultimately, make better decisions, in order to succeed in college and beyond.

Not entirely sure how I'm supposed to study for that, mind ...


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Growing up won't bring us down

"His name's Tulani".

I corrected my nan on the name of one of her South African care-workers - she'd mistakenly referred to him as 'Carrigtwohill'.

"That's it!" She said, pointing and shaking her hand in his direction, as if she'd figured it out on her own. "I knew it had a T in it. I've gone terrible deaf Fionnuala girl".

My nan was now in hospital permanently - sound of mind, frail of heart and body, eyes as blue as a porcelain doll's. The same, however, could not be said about her fellow patients.

"Get out ... Get out ... Get out ... GET OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" A pleasant old 'dear' had greeted us as we entered. Away with the fairies. "She's probably better off", my mam remarked. "Madame Butterfly", my selectively deaf grandmother had called her.

As I sat on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, I allowed myself to take in fully this new environment. Shelves filled with adult nappies, assistance bells at the bedside, jellies on the table, the able patients' knitwork lining the walls ... Is this what awaits me? Is this what we wait for with bated breath? Is this really what I wish for when I complain about my life and long to be older?

In that moment, I felt like I had been wishing my life away. About the way I look, the people I spend my time with and where I spend it ... Yeah, growing is hard. Really hard at times. My secrets had spread faster than glandular fever at a GAA disco. Stress inevitably got the better of me at one stage or another. I was rejected, and in return, I rejected people. My whole landscape of friends had changed radically, to the point where I know longer acknowledge people who I previously invested all of my time into. I had complained previously about 'those people', 'this town', 'that night' ... All for what? For me to get old old and go loopy?

I sat amongst my family, in what was, essentially, an adult crèche and came to my conclusion: if growing old is hard, imagine how bloody hard being old is. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for crappy school, drunken mistakes and horrible people who deserve to have their ears pierced with rusty nails. I have what my nan doesn't - spontaneity and diversity. I made a decision then and there to prolong monotony for as long as possible. Lord knows I can't stop the ageing process but, so help me, I'm going to slow the bastard down before I become my own Madame Butterfly.

"Are you working tonight?" My nan asked.

"Yeah I am".

"Sure God help us!" she said, shaking her head.

God help us indeed.



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Prologue (*)

This is the first piece of fiction I've written in a while. More importantly it's the first piece of fiction that I have been genuinely excited about. It's the prologue to a story that has been churning in my mind for some time - it's just a matter of putting pen to paper really, (or should that be fingers to keys? Hmm). Whether the entire story ever comes to fruition is another story altogether, (what a shameless, shameless pun), but hopefully it will. Maybe after school and exams ... Anyways! Enough nonsensical jabber! I hope you enjoy.



When I think of him, there's one particular memory that stands out above all the others ...



"I love it when you cut off my air supply like this. It's really attractive".

A voice beneath me murmured. I shivered. The wind was punishing me for wearing so little clothing, (nothing new there).

I began to laugh, and continued to do so. Uncontrollably. It hung in the air like cathedral bells, loud and boisterous, (nothing new there either, my signature laugh was infamous).

I lay there. surrounded by several other friends, the majority of whom were enjoying the wonders of underage drinking outdoors. My discarded Jones' bottles lay next to my equally jaded naggin bottle of Huzzar. One of the girls had gone down the other end of the field for a piss - you know, the usual.

"Hey Logan?"

"Yes dear?"

"Wanna know the difference between soda and vodka?"

"Of course".

"Two letters"

Logan laughed politely.

"Not that you'd know". I buried my head into his chest. "Too busy being a dry-balls to drink with me".

"Sorry. Next time. I promise".

We were silent for a few moments, the soundtrack of our friends' chatter in the background.

"Logan?"

"Hmmm?"

"... How do you please a man?"

Logan paused, pensive for a moment, before replying:

"Watch a lot of porn".

More cathedral bell/drowning donkey laughter.

"No but seriously", he said, stroking my hair, "you'll be fine. Honestly. You're perfect".

I looked up at him, struggling to keep focus as I did so. "Thanks", I smiled.

"Seriously though, I think one of my lungs has collapsed".

"Are you calling me fat?!"

"No!" Logan exclaimed, "I just - "

"You know Logan, it's time like these that I really think we shouldn't be friends. Because you're horrible to me. ALL THE TIME ... Don't look at me like that! I could revoke your friendship card like THAT!"

I rolled off of him and closed my eyes, filled with a warmth that only he could provide.



This isn't our story, nor is it my own.

This is his story that I promised him.


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Legacy

"Oh, you're the one who puked all over herself at Christina's!"

While I was doing my best to cheer up a girl I barely knew in the bathroom of a club at the weekend, she quickly remembers how it is that she knows me - being an absolute mess.

I have written about said-puking experience before - if you haven't read it, allow me to redirect you.

What she said got me thinking. You're probably aware having read previous posts that I am extremely conscious as to what people think of me and it affects me a lot. I stopped and asked myself at that moment - what will I be remembered for?

The saying goes that the good you do is never acknowledged, and the bad you do is never forgotten and I can't help but feeling this applies to me. I obsess over the things I have done wrong or am doing wrong. The good pales in comparison to the bad.

Didn't Beyoncé sing something about 'leaving footprints in the sands of time'? I mean, that's all well and good if you're Beyoncé, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not actually Beyoncé. What about me?

Will I be immortalised as 'the girl that puked all over herself at an 18th she was invited to solely because of her boyfriend'? 'That girl that kissed too many boys in one night'? 'That attention-seeking girl who asked about ass tattoos on Twitter'? 'The one who bit that girl in Senior Infants, who broke someone's heart on New Year'a Eve, who constantly told lies, was an awful friend and who laid her dignity on the line for the sake of being liked by shallow spiteful people'?

Maybe not. Maybe I'll be 'the girl that got the highest results in her Junior Cert that one time'. Or 'the girl who loved people to the point of no return'. 'The girl who would do ANYTHING for her friends and family'. 'The one who sang Ave Maria, made stupid Batman impressions and never forgot anybody's birthday'.

Maybe.

Maybe it would just be better to be forgotten.

'The girl that never was'.

My Life In Pictures #1 - My friends are scumbags

Childhood memories

My friend asked me to write a piece for her with the title of 'childhood memories'. I won't name names (love you Ellen).  I wrote this in a very short amount of time about a very distinct memory I have of being young. Enjoy!




"Careful! It's not a race you know!"

Mam called for me as I half stumbled out the steps of our house into our expansive back garden. The sun was shining brighter than it had in my living memory. I wish I'd savoured that most of all: it wouldn't shine so frequently in my later years.

From the step, I had surveyed my kingdom: the circular flower bed with the stone border, Dad's numerous vegetable patches spreading all the way to the end of the garden, the fence laden with raspberries and logan berries, the forbidden shed. The question was, where to explore first?

The crunch of grass beneath bare feet was what summer was all about. Birdsong. The scent of sun-cream lingering on my skin. The whole garden was alive, which made it all the more exciting for my exuberant 4 year old self.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, all around the garden. I lost myself in the life and beauty of everything - everything was special, everything was different. Trees were climbed (though only so far - I hadn't quite conquered all heights yet),  flowers smelt, (something I miss dearly now, thanks to the joys of hay fever  Where else could you find a sheltered bush that was a home for a poor family one day, a bakery the next, and a school the day after that? The game was without end. Even on my own, I was able to find fun wherever I looked for it.

But one day it wasn't fun I found, but a monumental fear that has stayed with me to this day, because of the slightest of incidents.

My garden was the equivalent of a life-sized bouquet. Flowers littered the lawn and my mother's beds were always perfectly pruned. The colours were at their most glorious at that time of year. The air was delicately perfumed. All these conditions combined provided the perfect breeding ground for the enemy
.
Carefree, I ran through the washing line , sheets billowing in the breeze. The circular flower bed was next to the washing line, and was brimming with plants. Dotted among them were several stone statues - a hedgehog with bright red eyes, a squirrel with blue, a frog on a log with green. Time for a nose around, I thought.

I knelt down scrutinized as well as one could at such a tender age. The prettier plants were prioritized above the more ordinary. My particular favourite was one my dad had bought me at a garden fair a year previous - long skinny spiralling stems with delicate pink flowers.

Then it appeared. In all its yellow and ebony striped evilness.

The bee.

A horrendous drone filled my ears. I watched it hover precariously over my plant as I paralysed by fear of this unusual creature. It wasn't a particularly large bee - certainly not the queen bee - but it was large enough to scare the living daylights out of me regardless.  I'd heard about them. I knew that they could sting. The very thought of a bee stinging me gave me shivers. What if it stung me and didn't die and continued to follow and torment me for the rest of my life? I was paralysed with fear.

As the bee flew away in an erratic zig-zag, I ran to my mam and told her everything. She was pottering, as she normally did on days like that fateful one.

"I'll let you on a secret - he's a lot more afraid of you than you are of him", she said knowingly.
But what was that supposed to make sense to a 4 year old? What was I going to do to the little devil? It's not as if I could sting him. I went inside to the safety of the kitchen and pondered how I could continue life knowing 'they' were out there.

However, this was promptly forgotten when the next sweltering day came around, when there were many more of them out in force. Looking back, I think it taught me something important and I didn't even realise. There's no point being afraid of something bad that might happen, because you'll just end up missing out on all the good.

Mind you, I'm still bloody terrified of bees.

Restored (*)

At last. It was hers.

Never had she coveted something so much and for so long as she had this magnificent piece. It had been calling for her from the wall of the gallery for many a year, and after a hard-fought auction she could finally call it her own. A beautiful oil painting set in a gilded frame. A portrait of a man and his wife from the 1800s, in period dress. She counted herself lucky to have found such a rare, unique work of art. Perfection.

Well, that is not entirely true. Art is not without its flaws: artists, collectors and auctioneers alike know that. Tragically, her painting was no exception - exposure to daylight and general wear-and-tear had lead to its condition being less than mint by the time it had made its way to her.

Not that that was going to stop her. She believed she had all the qualities to bring its beauty back to life. Love, affection and plenty of patience were all that were required. How hard could it be? Granted, she had never restored a painting before, but she was committed to the cause. "You were worth the wait, Lord knows you'll be worth the time and effort", she thought to herself.

She dove into the project. As she lacked the first-hand experience, she relied foolishly on the poor advice of others, who knew as little as she did, As well as that, she read a countless number of books on painting restoration. Despite her youth and lack of experience, she believed whole-heartedly she could do her masterpiece justice and give it what it deserved.








She tried. No one could deny her that. Not even the man and the wife in the painting. It became the ultimate labour of love. It is unclear as to where the emphasis lay: 'labour' or 'love'. She had underestimated the necessary investment in restoring such a damaged, but high quality painting. Weeks and months slipped away like paint on canvas. She began to see people less and less. Her own work suffered. Relationships fizzled out. Her devotion to the cause was unquestionable - enslaved by her love for the thing. How could she not be? She was overcome by its beauty. She adored it. She was the envy of all her friends for having it. Only once in a blue moon would you stumble across such a fantastic piece. She refused to give up on it, despite the hardship. They had said it would be hard, so it must have meant she was doing it right. With a heavy heart and her pupils drowned, she persevered.

Where love grows, so do feelings of inadequacy. After faltering on numerous occasions, and feeling she was simply ruining the painting, she grew disillusioned. She no longer felt worthy of owning such a fine piece when she couldn't even restore it. She grew sad at the thought of the man and wife's displeasure of being poorly restored, of being forever hidden behind a sheet never to be admired or desired again. She grew jealous of other artists with their delicate strokes, their perfect ways, their knowledge. Their eyes were filled with love and their blood filled with beauty. She had neither of those traits and she never would. Doubts permeated her weak mind. Was she not cut out for this?

The paintings hold on her was unshakeable. She agonised over its every feature. Any moment not spent painting evoked feelings of guilt within her. Any moment spent painting never felt like enough. Every mistake burned her retina and burrowed its way into her long term memory. Feelings of inadequacy continued to manifest in her mind. Slowly, she began to accept that she was not capable of restoring this priceless painting. She was not the best thing for this. The promises she made could not be kept. Tortured, she made a decision, for better or for worse.








As the furnace flickered in the dark, she thought of how happy she thought it would make her, as if she hadn't before. She had never pictured such a grim ending. Had she loved the idea more than the reality? Her love, time and effort, had it been for nothing? If so, she was entirely to blame. The heat was unbearable.

She watched her tarnished love smoke and burn and her heart ached - but not half as much as it had when she was with it.