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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75258488787102741262016-02-06T16:13:33.104+00:00 From My Kitchen TableBarbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-35688698519323256292015-10-05T16:56:00.000+01:002015-10-05T16:57:11.788+01:00BELFAST TICKS ALL THE BOXES FOR A WEEKEND AWAYWe headed north in August for a wonderful weekend in Belfast. Can't believe I left it this long to visit.... I found a proud and friendly city with a great sense of humour.

My travel piece appeared in the Irish Examiner last weekend and you can read it here.

Here is a short photo essay of our time in the city which I thought you might enjoy too.....

The SS Nomad - tender to SS Titanic

Lovely spot for lunch just across from Titanic - Cast & Crew

A cool spot for dinner.... HADSKIS

BELFAST AT NIGHT.....

The wonderful St Georges Market

Hours of gorgeous browsing

LIVE MUSIC

 AND LOTS OF COLOUR

THE VIEW OVER THE CITY FROM THE DOME AT VICTORIA SQUARE

HOTEL CHOCOLAT.......

CRUMLIN ROAD GAOL

NOT GEORGE BEST.... SOME FELLA CALLED CARSON

NOT ALL MURALS ARE POLITICAL

HIGHLY RECOMMEND A TAXI TOUR... WE TOOK ONE WITH VALUE CABS. Excellent

SIGNING THE PEACE WALL... AND UNDERSTAND A LITTLE MORE OF OUR HISTORY

All photos by Paul Sherwood. www.sherwood,ie

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-13317159990705202962015-07-23T17:57:00.000+01:002015-07-23T17:57:17.480+01:00"IRISH MEDIA IS A BIG MICKEY INDUSTRY"Back in April, The Media Show on RTE had a segment about the shocking level of sexism that exists in Irish Media. Dr Tom Cloonan and freelance journalist Alison O Connor presented research and personal experience to back up this fact.

I have written before about the appalling state of Irish radio with regard to women's voices but the fact is that sexism exists across all media organisations in this country.

Therefore not only is our political system totally skewed so also is the media that reports it.

Gender balance in media is not some lofty aspiration to be achieved by a slow change of mindsets and culture, it is an urgent problem that needs to be fixed NOW.

You can listen back to The Media Show here and below is the transcript of the broadcast.

Transcript of Media programme Sunday 19 April 2015<o:p></o:p>

Presenter Conor Brophy<o:p></o:p>

Are women getting a raw deal in the media?

Debate: Alison O Connor (Freelance journalist) and Dr Tom Clonan (Security correspondent with the Irish Times)<o:p></o:p>

Is there sexism at play in the how women are treated within media organisations?

Q. Tom, do you think there is particular macho or masculine culture within the media?

A. I suppose I am coming from military background. As an army officer and as a captain I did my doctoral research (PHD) on the experiences of women in Ireland's armed forces. The military would be constructed as a very hyper masculine environment with a very robust canteen kind of culture in it. Unfortunately the research I conducted revealed unacceptably high levels of discrimination, harassment and particularly bullying and sexual violence against women in the army.

After I retired, quite by accident, with the twin tower attacks and so on, I found myself working in the journalism space and, I suppose, coming from the military, I had expected or I suppose I had this idea that media would be progressive and would have an equality friendly environment and would be very different from the military. In fact I found and find that many workplace settings within the media would make the army's eyes water in terms of the masculine, casual sexism and quite a lot of bullying in this environment. That was both an unexpected and disappointing finding on my part.

Q. Would that be your experience Alison?

A. Absolutely Conor. To put it another way the media is a big Mickey industry. It's so male dominated. I did an informal ring around today. If you take, for instance, each day a news conference takes place to decide what sets the agenda what's important, what's setting the agenda for the next day-80%-90% of the people at that are male. These are also the people who would be writing editorials lecturing politicians or others in industry for having a poor gender balance or for not doing their bit and I suppose the worst is that they would often consider themselves to be pretty right on and if not a feminist a friend to the feminist or to the female. I think it comes from the fact that the media is a very competitive industry. It is quite a selfish industry in that in many ways you are trying to get that scoop, you are working on your own; the hours are very anti social. I work freelance now and I work from home so I'm observing it a little bit from the other side. There's very little effort, from what I can see, to accommodate women with children who want to stay in their jobs. It's part of the macho culture to stay late and being seen to stay late. It doesn't make it easy and I see friends my age who really want to stay in their jobs and who are immensely talented and would be a huge loss to the industry and I see no effort whatsoever to accommodate them in any way in terms of trying to mix both work and being a parent.

Q Tom, you had a point to make there

A. Sure. I'm a journalist in practice but I also do a lot of radio and TV so I have a footprint in all the major Irish media organisations. I have observed the workplace culture in each of those settings. The other thing I will say is in my capacity, I am now regarded as a whistleblower. That was not a term in use when I did my PhD. Over the years, whenever I appear in the media, like when there is a TV documentary or a radio documentary as there was here in RTE on the series Whistleblowers I have been contacted by female journalists in Ireland who have repeated similar stories of harassment, sexual harassment and bullying. I think in relation to the status and role of female journalists within the Irish media. This is a particular Irish phenomenon. I think there is a requirement for major investigation and further analysis in order that we remove those obstacles.

Q, There is an issue there Alison that you referred earlier-if these sort of allegations were made, if this sort of thing was to happen in any other sector it would be very much seen as and would be the duty of the fourth estate to hold the powers that be to account.

A. It's something funny to do with journalists. I do not know if we see that journalism is a vocation or something. Even if you walk into the average newsroom it's been my experience that a lot of the time even the desks and the chairs and the computers are pretty crap. Journalists don't collectively look for better conditions. It's as if we are being Superman or saving the world. It extends a bit to that, to do with the conditions. A particular thing in relation to Leinster House- It's like a boy's boarding school. It's overwhelmingly male. We have such a poor representation of female TDs. The majority of women you see in Leinster House are either parliamentary assistants or catering staff or ushers. It is testosterone laden. There are very few places where you could replicate that. There are very few institutions that are so absolutely and immensely male.

Q. Even at a low level Alison and I hesitate to use that term, in preparing for the programme I contacted some female journalists who are prominent within the media. Some have never experienced sexism. Some have but say they take it on the chin. You put up with it.

Alison: If you have an exclusively male environment, if decisions are taken at a level where it is testosterone driven with no oestrogen feeding in then the balance is all wrong.

Q What needs to be done then Tom?

A. If you look at the arm forces, an organisation that operates in very difficult circumstances in Golan Heights and Syria and so on. After my research was published and investigated by an independent government enquiry they developed a mission statement with regard to equality. They also have a very strong dignity in the workplace charter. It's incumbent on the NUJ and all the media organisations that they put in place very clear and explicit policies, goals and objectives that are measureable with regard to the participation and promotion of women and female voices at all levels in our media. That would be a start.

Q Alison?

A. I know it would be difficult to implement but I would favour quotas for current affairs panels and for the experts- the people that programmes bring on to tell us what we should think about an issue on any given day be it domestic or international. That's the way things will change Things have improved. There is now more awareness. An argument you will hear from senior people in the media and which is trotted out is that listeners don't like female voices. I have never seen that research. They are not used to listening to women's voices. On certain radio schedules on certain stations you can go for hours without hearing a female voice

.

Tom: Research in International military scene shows that women's voices are actually the most compelling and attractive voices. In cockpit prompts in fighter aircrafts they use the woman's voice as they believe we are more genetically disposed and hardwired to listening to our mothers. There is no research that shows that female voices are not attractive but there is plenty of research to show that sexist men will often quote false science to support sexist misogynistic views.

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-6525119034383544872015-07-09T15:26:00.000+01:002015-07-09T15:31:34.425+01:00SORRY RED, IT'S NOT YOU... IT'S ME
I remember well the first bottle of wine I ever bought. Well I didn't purchase all of it.. I had shares in it, so to speak. I was about 16 and with a few girl pals walked over a mile (no – we had shoes and it wasn't snowing) to a shop where we had heard they weren't very fussed about proof of age when purchasing alcohol. We could afford one bottle between us.

As we neared the shop it was decided that I alone should enter the premises since I was the tallest and so surely must have looked the oldest. The girls waited around the corner while I completed the transaction without any bother. Then, nursing our precious purchase, we trudged all the way back (well, it was uphill) to the friend's house whose parents were away. Once there, we sat around the kitchen table and after a long struggle with a corkscrew managed to get the wine open and carefully doled it out between about five of us.

We were all staying the night and so went to bed convinced we were all drunk and relishing the thought of hangovers in the morning. Oh the innocence of it all.

Since those heady schoolgirl days I have dalliances with various other tipples. There were the Bacardi & Coke days, the (brace yourself) Malibu & Pineapple days (I feel nauseous just thinking about that) and indeed I still am partial to an odd Hot Port or Pear Cider depending on the weather.

But wine... sigh.... wine and I have never fallen out of love. Wine has been there.. every step of the way. From that first bottle of what was most likely Black Tower or Blue Nun to the bottles of Merlot and Shiraz languishing in my wine rack as I type.

Languishing you say? Yes languishing. Because, dear reader, I never saw it coming. I thought we still happily involved in a beautiful relationship; a relationship that I will admit it had its ups and downs. There were some nights (or indeed afternoons) when we overdid our love for each other. There were dawns when I should have been in bed rather than struggling home from a neighbour's house. There were times when the day after the night before was a bit of a struggle as a result of my overindulgence. But in fairness after well over three decades together we know each other fairly well and like a good marriage, we generally got on pretty well.

In fact it was better than that. We had some great laughs down the years. The early days of cheap plonk and dodgy corks which disintegrated into the bottle as I struggled to remove them and then had to strain the wine through tights.... What? You never did that? The days spent in Spain drinking rough local vino from earthenware jugs. The cosy, winter nights, me and my wine, together by a roaring fire. All the celebrations, the birthdays, the Christmases... we did them all..happily together. Not (necessarily) getting drunk you understand but just enjoying each other's company.

But over the last few months something changed. At first I assumed we were going through a rocky patch. Two glasses of wine of an evening was starting to result in a horrible headache which often woke me in the middle of the night and lasted for most of the following day. As a sufferer of migraines I do tend to get a bit panicky at the onset of a headache. These weren't migraines but did leave me feeling pretty awful and very, very tired.

I persevered, as one does when a relationship has a wobble. I tried to drink water along with the wine. I thought that was helping for a while. But I was only fooling myself.

So I bought a bottle of white. It's not the same. We just don't have the same chemistry. There were fewer headaches but there was no spark. No deeply satisfying sigh at the first taste on my lips.

The bottles of red sat sadly looking at me from the rack in the kitchen. So I decided to risk a glass the other night. Spaghetti bolognaise tastes better anyway wish a dash of red so I opened a bottle and poured a glass. I inhaled deeply its spicy aroma. Glass to lips and that first taste... oh it was sublime. How I had missed it. But I was sensible – I limited myself to just a glass.. and a half.

Next day, I woke at six am with the familiar feeling of my head thumping on the pillow and my day went south slowly. I cried bitter tears at the realisation that our relationship must end.

Later I went downstairs and addressed the wine rack. "It's not you" I sobbed, "it's me. I am so sorry, but it's over."

Let me tell you something, it's a man's world and the menopause is a bitch... with teeth. But I am holding onto my bottles of red... because this can't last forever, right?
Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-63459155889346278302015-06-15T12:33:00.000+01:002015-06-15T12:33:55.560+01:00DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL

Seaside Marquee - DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL

In the last few years I have become a right pain in the ass about The Dalkey Book Festival. "It's great," I enthuse to all and sundry, "brilliant events and the town buzzes with energy and the sun always shines". Most of those I know who visit will book one or maybe two events. But me... with my addictive personality... I book way too many and end up tearing about the village from tent to town hall and back again. I try to build in gaps where I can venture home just so my kids don't think I have actually gone away for the weekend. Although every year I wonder should I book into the B&B in the village if there is such a thing – and that's another mystery – why isn't there a boutique hotel in Dalkey? Staying onsite would enable me to not miss a thing... I could completely immerse myself in all the cleverality. Like the old days back in Dunelles pub in Dun Laoghaire where even if you weren't smoking a joint yourself, you could get high just breathing I could absorb more just by being there.

Dalkey is a perfect location for a festival. It's small and retains the feel of an Irish village, but it also has lots of great places to eat and drink. And boy is it scenic. Even for me, a Dun Laoghaire woman (2ndgeneration, I'll have you know) who misspent much of her youth around Dalkey, the festival allows me to glimpse the location through fresh eyes, especially this year with the addition of the The Seafront Marquee in Dillons Park overlooking Dalkey Island.

But what makes the Dalkey Book Festival so compulsive is that it provides much of what is missing in Irish media today. A chance to sit and listen to some great speakers discussing big questions, philosophical questions... the kind of stuff that makes you think. There are great panel sessions too where various topics are debated. But not debated in the polarised way we have become used to seeing on TV where the extremes are encouraged to contest the issue in sound bites with the facilitator constantly chiding them to hurry up. Dalkey Book Festival is many ways is reminiscent of the heyday of the Late Late Show. Long conversations liberally sprinkled with anecdotes and humour.

It is a perfect way to hear your favourite journalists (Fintan O Toole, Olivia O'Leary and Dearbhail McDonald featured this year) as well as writers and thinkers on a wide range of topics. And that is the key to understanding the Dalkey Book Festival – it's not just about books, it's about much more. And at its heart are the long philosophical conversations that Irish people love to have on topics that are important to us. This year there were sessions titled 'Economists, What Are They Good For?', 'New World 2020' and 'The Next Billion'. My own favourite was 'Who Owns 2016'. And again, unlike the debates we are normally subjected to in Ireland on radio and TV, there are no winners. No conclusion – but plenty of food for thought, plenty to mull over for days afterwards.

Oh - and it tends to remarkably free of politicians. What's not to like?

Well, there is one thing... I would love to see more women on the various stages. From quick count I did on the adult events (there's a great kids programme too) there are almost double the amount of men on stage than women. And historians - although I like Diarmuid Ferriter, I sometimes wonder is he our only historian. I would especially like to hear someone like Mary McAuliffe discussing Ireland's revolutionary decade. Mary has done lots of interesting work on women's involvement... perhaps that might be something the organising committee would look at next year.

Either way I will be there. I'm saving already... are you on their mailing list?

www.dalkeybookfestival.org

Miriam O Callaghan hosts Irish Directors Talk Books with Jim Sheridan, Neil Jordan and Lenny Abrahamson

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-25050937216287028412015-05-07T16:36:00.001+01:002015-05-07T16:46:58.958+01:00FAILING OUR YOUNG PEOPLE.....
Dinner table discussions are one of the best things about family life.. and like good wine they get better as the kids get older. I had the rare experience of gathering my three daughters and my husband around a big roast dinner last night in advance of my eldest's journey back to Perth after a short visit home.

The last day with her is always awful. Emotions are raw and all just below the surface. We are all walking on eggshells like Basil Fawlty in that famous episode of Fawlty Towers afraid to 'mention the war' or in our case 'the parting'. We usually make lots of nonsense small talk to avoid opening the floodgates of tears.

But last night was different as the talk turned very quickly to the Marriage Equality referendum. My emigrant daughter found it hard to believe that there was a concerted campaign for a No vote. However it was my other two daughters, aged 16 and 14 who were most vocal on the issue.

They had both recently discovered a number of families known to them who are voting no. This stunned them.

But what upset them most, was that in the majority of cases, the off spring in these families are very angry at their parent's stance on this issue. Living, in Dun Laoghaire/Rathdown in supposedly one of the most liberal constituencies in the country, I was also stunned at this revelation. One of my daughters told us of her friend who is gay and his parents are also voting no.

Conversation continued as I recounted my rather surreal experience of debating the issue on air on East Coast Radio earlier in the day. I talked about the misinformation and fear being spread by the No side which is very difficult to counter. Then my youngest who is 14 exploded.

"In this referendum we should be allowed to vote. This is an issue that will affect our lives and the lives of our friends. It will have no affect whatsoever on these parents who are straight and already married. They also grew up in an era when homosexuality was illegal and under the radar. It was OK to look down and judge gay people. And now they might be the ones who may get to decide on this very issue. It is not fair that we cannot have our say. That our voices will not be heard."

And she is right. Once again we in this bloody country are doing a disservice to our young people. Not only can they not vote on this issue but we are not even hearing their views.

We finished our meal almost more depressed than if we had visited the issue of saying goodbye to the eldest.

However on a more positive note, the girls also told us that their school, which is a former convent school with a very Catholic ethos, is festooned with Yes stickers and they are not being removed by the staff. This cheered me somewhat until I realised that only a small minority of the school population will have a vote!

The clarity with which our teenagers view this referendum, seeing it clearly as an issue of equality and not one of parenting is also making me rethink my stance on the other issue we vote on on May 22nd. Maybe a young President is what this bloody country needs?

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-87295227539158238252015-04-12T22:23:00.000+01:002015-04-12T22:23:01.801+01:00WEARING YOUR MID LIFE CRISIS....On Your Head
It was Coco Chanel who said that a woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life. This may or may not be true. But what is very true is that a woman's relationship with her hair goes way beyond the obvious. It is a deeply intense bond that proclaims something to the world about the woman's inner life.

I remember well my first proper hairstyle. The first time I ever went to a hair stylist. I think I was about ten. Before this my dear mother, who is gifted in many things but not hairdressing, used to give me the classic pudding bowl cut complete with wonky fringe that was de rigour for children in Ireland in the 1970s. So it was a big deal to be given the two pence ha'penny or whatever it was to take myself off to the local hairdressers for a proper hairstyle. A bob. A heavy fringe and curtain of beautifully styled hair with a turn under for added bounce. I was gorgeous. I didn't just think I was gorgeous I FELT gorgeous.

The early 80's ushered in the era of the perm. I achieved my own unique version of the poodle, with a straight hair on the top of my head (because I was – and still am - very tall) and full curly sides. This look involved spending hours with foul smelling stuff on my head (it did actually make my eyes water) in a trendy salon on Baggot St. I knew it was trendy because Gillian Bowler, who was then selling sexy holidays to Greece was also a regular client – although she never went for a perm as far as I know! Her long, luscious locks cascaded around her face from the permanent sunglasses perched on her head, winter and summer.

By the end of that decade I was a single parent and decided I required a kind of 'don't fuck with me' hairstyle which was a short back and sides. I hoped it would make me look like a strong woman. In reality I looked like a lanky boy.

In the 90's I met a man I liked and got married. My look softened along with my heart and I splashed out on blonde highlights. This marked the first time I tinkered with the colour of my hair – well unless you include the dabbling with Henna in the late 70s.

The wedding highlights were just beginning to fade when the grey hair started to be an issue. Marriage, huh? Anyway I added a box of Clairol that looked vaguely similar to my own colour, to my supermarket shopping and did a home job. But the toll on the bathroom was immense; splashes of brown on tiles, on the loo, on the sink and not to mention to ruined towels.

In spite of my efforts the grey continued its relentless march. Tougher action was called for.

So began the visit to the local salon every two months to 'have my colour done'. Two hours to read trashy magazines and wonder about celebrity life styles after which I bounced back out to my life with a shiny ageless head of beautifully blow dried hair.

Then two months become six weeks and now we are down to one month. And I am beginning to fear that I am losing this battle.

Now let me state clearly the obvious. And that is that while my hair has been succumbing to my great age – so has the rest of me. I have lines on my forehead and wrinkles around my eyes and mouth. My chin has trebled and my jaw line is slack. And that's just my face. But somehow I can live with all of that. In fact I come close to believing that my face now has character. My lines and wrinkles speak of tears shed through both sorrow and sheer joy. And in the right light – fairly dark light, let it be said – I look, well, kind of reasonable. No siree - no botox or fillers or any of that rubbish for me.

But my hair lets me down every time those grey roots start to appear. Immediately I look (with all due respects to her) like my 80 year old mother.

The recession hasn't helped. There have been months when I have taken pity on the dog whose nails are scraping on the floor and who trips over his own long hair and taken him to the groomers with my hair money. Sure what will another couple of weeks matter, I ask myself. Oh but it does matter. Once those grey roots appear all around my face, I notice people talking to my hair rather than to me. I keep catching sight of myself in shop windows or mirrors and wondering why my aforementioned mother has joined me.

Last summer my hairdresser gently suggested that I might like to start to lighten my hair colour a little. This would make the appearance of grey roots a little less obvious. But I wasn't happy. My hair had never been light brown. It didn't match my eyebrows. I didn't feel like me.

So I decided that I should do something radical with my hair. Purple, I thought to myself. I'll dye my hair purple. Deep Purple – not that Kelly Osborne washed out purple... but proper purple. That would be very rock 'n' roll.

So next visit to my beleaguered hairdressers I informed them of my wish to go purple, proper purple. They tried to politely dissuade me. But I insisted. They said they didn't really have the purple I wanted in stock. Sure maybe I should think about it.

I did. I asked them just to give me a trim and blow dry and on the way home I picked up a colour from the supermarket. My first attempt turned out a bit red rather than purple. But I preserved – for the last six months I have been various shades of red and pink – usually at the same time. I never achieved the purple I envisaged. My hair was a bit of a mess.

But here's the thing about one's hair. Unless you really, truly care, you only really pay attention to what's framing your face. So I was pretty unaware of how weird my colour was until I travelled half way around the world recently to holiday with my emigrant daughter whose first job was in a hairdressers.

"Jesus Ma, you're hair's great craic – it's brown, grey, pink and red." To make matters worse, the climate in Bali is very humid and so my multicoloured barnet also frizzed out in all directions. I finally realised I did indeed look a holy show.

In desperation I sent a message to my long suffering local hairdressers begging them for an appointment on the way back from the airport.

"I think I might lighten my hair... " I muttered sheepishly. "For the summer, like."

The colourist looked at my poor sun bleached, dry, multicoloured hair.

"We didn't do this, did we?" she asked.

"No. I did"

"Right. Well there is no quick fix. Killing that red tone is going to take a bit of time. We will have to go a bit darker before we can lighten it. Otherwise you will just have pink highlights."

Pink highlights? For a minute, I wondered.

But I think I am over my hair proclaiming my personal mid life crisis. I am ready to move on! I think.....
Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-71570386256904886502015-02-23T13:48:00.002+00:002015-02-23T13:49:21.619+00:00#askhermore
Feminism is a funny old game. It is a classic case of two steps forward and one backwards. As women move forward in our quest for full equality there seems to be an equal counterweight which balances this progress by reminding us that we still aren't really that equal. Just in case we get ahead of ourselves like.

Nowhere is this more clearly evident than in the media and entertainment. Take the movies, for example. While there seems to be a feeling abroad that things are improving for female lead roles, research recently published by the Centre for the Study of Women in Film and Television showed that, in fact less than 12% of the lead protagonists in the top grossing 100 movies in 2014 were women. Less than 12%. And women only represented 30% of all speaking characters in these movies.

But along with these dismal statistics are the facts that most of the women in film are younger and usually identified by their social roles rather than their careers. In other words they are portrayed as far less powerful than their male counterparts.

At this juncture can I just give TV3 a shout out for their superb new soap drama series 'Red Rock' which is liberally sprinkled with strong female characters, who operate in their own right. It's very refreshing and they are every bit as compulsive as any of the male leads.

Anyway, back to Hollywood and the fact that we might think that Disney putting a princess into a blue dress means that things are changing. The reality is that they are not.

Of course one of the main ways to reduce a woman's power is by subtly reminding her that no matter what her accomplishments are, she will still be judged first and foremost on her appearance. And no where will you find this illustrated more elegantly than on these 'Red Carpet Shows' that precede all the big awards ceremonies. In one fell swoop these shows have managed to reduce some of the most wonderful actresses and female performers in the world to beauty pageant contestants.

E! Fashion Police (yes, an actual programme which used star the late Joan Rivers) leads the charge in this regard with their vacuous presenters, Ryan Seacrest and Giuliana Rancic who line up female stars to ask "so.... who are you wearing?" E! has also championed two new technologies to help them in their task of reducing the actresses to clothes horses. The Glam Cam rotates an image of the actress round and round and up and down so we can judge her from all angles and then we have the mani-cam. Yes, you guessed it. A mini red carpet so the actress to walk her fingers towards the camera so we can view her manicure and her jewellery.

However the good news is that the fight back is on, it seems to be working and it began on the much maligned medium of social media.

The Representation Project grew from the success of a film by Jennifer Siebel Newsom called 'Miss Representation' which examined how women were portrayed in across all media, from film to news and current affairs. The mission of the project is to highlight and challenge the limiting depictions of women in media.

In response to the inane questions that female actors are subjected to on the red carpet they began a hashtag called #askhermore. This allows users of social media, particularly Twitter to urge broadcasters to 'ask her more' than just what dress she is wearing.

Now don't get me wrong, I like a nice frock and wearing too much make up to a 'posh do' occasionally. And yes, I watch these Red Carpet shows and love to see the style. But I would also love to hear about how the actress felt about the role, or what she was doing next.

The website Buzzfeed sent a reporter to cover the red carpet at the recent BAFTA's in London who only spoke to male actors and gave them the 'who are you wearing treatment', along with requesting Eddie Redmayne and Michael Keaton to 'do a twirl'. You can guess who did and who didn't. But it was the look on the mens' faces as they were faced with such trivial, banal questioning that was the best.

At the Screen Actors Guild Awards in January actors Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon and Julianne Moore all refused to parade their fingers for the mani cam.

But to borrow from Mr Dylan, "the times they are a-changing". Last night, as I watched the first hour of E!'s Red Carpet Show the change in emphasis was obvious. Men and women were both asked who they were wearing – but that was it. They were then asked more. And for the time I watched anyway there wasn't a mani-cam or glam cam in sight.

The fight goes on but at least the battle to #askhermore seems to have been won.

You might like this story on the Oscars From My Table Archives
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-38149352103037525062015-02-04T10:52:00.000+00:002015-02-04T10:52:54.950+00:00FEARLESS NO MORE.....

I have a fear of clutter. I throw stuff out at an alarming rate. I especially hate the idea of the space above our heads being full of rubbish, so things have to pass my inspection before they are allowed to be stored in the attic. However there are two large bags up there which I insist on keeping. I rarely investigate these bags but I like to know they are there.

These bags contain a part of my soul. They contain my old diaries. No, not the kind of private journals into which you pour your heart and innermost darkest secrets. No, these are work diaries. And they go right back to the early 1980s.

My first career was in the travel business and my oldest diaries date from my days working for JWT. Although holding no deep secrets, they do provide plenty of clues to what was going on in my life then. Because along with work related appointments and reminders, my social life is also recorded therein. Pages that end with a scribble that says 'Toners' (pub in Baggot Street in which I spent quite a proportion of my meagre salary in those heady days), or Fridays that often say "the Pink" referring to theplace to hang out back then.

Music gigs were also an important feature with weekends littered with band names like 'Stepaside' and 'The Lookalikes'. Just looking at these notes, which give away no secrets, I can remember many things that will remain forever secret, well as long as I don't ever fall out with my oldest friends.

But it's not just the pages of the diary that hold clues to my previous lives. My diaries have always been used as storage folders for important bits and pieces of information – everything from other people's business cards to notes and letters. My JWT diaries hold copies of memos requesting holidays. There are long rolls of telex communications that were vital for some reason or other. Ask your ma or da what a telex is. These diaries are a window into the world of work in the largely pre computer era.

At the back of the diaries are lists of vital phone numbers – although in those days I could recite most of them off by heart. I don't even know my children's phone numbers now – something that does worry me.

And there are postcards from various far flung destinations. In the days before Facebook when we went on holidays we sent postcards back to let friends and family know that we were having a wonderful time. They've lasted way longer than last month's Facebook posts.

Currently in my work desk I have a drawer that is full of my most recent diaries... the writing and broadcasting ones. One of the great joys of self employment is getting to pick one's own diary.

About five years ago, when I first decided to leave the cosy and safe confines of my kitchen table in deepest suburbia in order to market my opinions in the media I came across a diary called 'A Fearless Woman'. Knowing that this was what I was going to have to become, I bought it. It was pretty and colourful and each month began with a page emblazoned with an affirmation.

I have bought a Fearless Woman Date Book even since. Let me share what January 2014 said; "From the deep well of her spirit, her brave voice awakens to rise and to roar. Empowered to say what she knows to be true, she speaks up and doesn't hold back". Great motivational stuff that I cling to on days when I wonder what kind of an eejit I am to think anyone is going to commission me to write anything at all.

So for the last five years my desk has been graced by my gorgeous Fearless Woman Diary. Then in the haze Christmas shopping madness, I made a rash decision. My head was turned by a pretty little pocket diary covered in glitter. "Sure wouldn't that be grand" I thought to myself; a nice sparkly diary that I could have in my bag. Big mistake. Huge.

Two weeks into January I was lost and I'm still completely bereft. My glittery diary is too small. I can never find it. It won't fit precious photos or slips of paper I may need. I hate it.

But worst of all, it's now too late to find a Fearless Woman diary in the shops.

The moral of this tale is that all that glitters (yes, I know he wrote 'glisters') is indeed not gold. Also - you are not what you eat – you are your diary. And how am I to continue to be a Fearless Woman in 2015 when I only have a stupid glittery yoke to work with?
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-63262645667723605392015-01-13T11:40:00.000+00:002015-01-13T11:40:21.101+00:00A FAMINE SIT COM? WHY NOT?
When I first heard that Channel Four had commissioned a 'sit-com' about the Famine I winced. My reaction was one of revulsion. The famine remains a special kind of horror that we may still be coming to terms with as a nation. The National Famine Monument in Co Mayo was only unveiled in 1997 and it was not until 2008 that we, as a country inaugurated a National Famine Commemoration Day. Why did we take so long to begin to deal with this catastrophe? Do we carry the horror of starving to death in our DNA as a kind of race memory? Do we Irish people of today carry some residue of guilt that our families survived and remained in Ireland? I think all of these questions may have an affirmative answer.

I know I was not alone is experiencing revulsion at the idea of a comedy being set around those awful years between 1845 and 1850. There is currently an online petition with over 20,000 signatures against this proposed project.

But once I got over my initial reaction I was almost equally disturbed by the notion that I might consider certain topics to be off limits to comedy or satire. All my life I have found humour even in the darkest moments. And I believe that it is this ability to see the absurd even in the tragic that has regularly saved my sanity. I am a huge believer in the power of humour to make life bearable and at times joyful beyond explanation. There is nothing as exhilarating as to be taken to that place where you are literally crying with laughter.

We lost American comedian Joan Rivers last year. At times Ms River's comedy made me wince too. Particularly when she attacked someone for being fat or ugly – or God forbid, both. I still think that personal attacks are the lowest form of wit. Ricky Gervais is another purveyor of this brand of humour. I like my comedy to be a bit clever.

When Ms Rivers died, I tweeted that I sometimes found her humour to be cruel rather than funny. That tweet didn't earn me any new followers and I was taken to task by a number of her fans online.

Over Christmas, ITV screened 'An Audience with Joan Rivers' which was originally aired in 2005. Towards the end of the programme she was asked if there was anything she wouldn't joke about. Her answer completely won me over.

It's a well known fact that her husband committed suicide (as she says, 'in the 80s when it was still chic'). She explained that when she went back on stage the first time after his death, she could feel the audience wondering how she would be. She tackled their curiosity head on. Her first joke was about suicide.

However, she then went on to talk about how her beloved daughter, Melissa reacted after the sudden death of her father. Melissa has spoken him on the phone the night before he died. Melissa was also the only person home when the phone call came to say he passed away. Joan got somewhat emotional when she explained how, for over a week after the funeral, she couldn't reach her poor 15 year old daughter. Finally she took her out to dinner to a very expensive restaurant in Hollywood. As they looked at the menus Joan said "you know Melissa, if you father were here looking at these prices, he'd kill himself all over again". And Melissa laughed. Connection was re-established.

I think there is a reason that we are the only species on earth that have a sense of humour. I am sure that our ability to laugh is designed as a release valve – a way of making life more bearable, especially at times of disaster – personal, national or indeed global.

Joan Rivers can joke about suicide because she has experienced it at close quarters (and she did a lot of charity work around the issue). There was a truth in her comedy.

The young man commissioned by Channel Four to write this sit com about the Famine is Hugh Travers. He is Irish. So too is the production company, Deadpan Pictures. That also makes a difference. So although the project may air on a British TV station, it will be an Irish creation.

We Irish should be the first to make comedy around the Famine, because we know the truth of it. It won't lessen the horror of what happened. It won't insult the memory of those that died. It won't change anything. No more than the movie 'Good Morning Vietnam' lessened the horror of the Vietnam War.

But it had better be funny. To be unfunny would be unforgiveable. I wish Mr Travers the best of luck.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-8585304411142221612014-11-29T16:57:00.000+00:002014-11-29T16:57:54.049+00:00LOVE CHRISTMAS? ME?... Maybe this year

Every Tuesday a lovely, chatty man who loves to laugh calls to my door with a delivery of eggs. We shoot the breeze for a couple of minutes and we always end up with a laugh. Last week the poor man had the misfortune to ask me if I was looking forward to Christmas. "Looking forward to Christmas" I roared at him... "looking forward to Christmas. No I bloody well am not. Christmas is just a whole heap of hard work." By now his expression of slight bemusement had morphed into something approaching terror, as if he has awoken some sleeping beast or had suddenly realised he was on a rapidly accelerating runaway train. He started to edge back out the door. But I was only getting going. "Along with the stress of weeks of present buying in stuffy over crowded shops I then have the prospect of peeling a mountain of spuds on Christmas Eve, followed by carrots and sprouts... that no one likes but we have to have them because they are traditional.. and God forbid we move away from tradition. Not to mention trifle, puddings and Christmas cake. Now who the hell in the right mind would look forward to Christmas? It's too much bloody hard work" I roar. The poor man was at the front gate by now, muttering "right so, see you next week."

As I closed the door I realised that I seemed to actually resent Christmas even more than I had thought. I felt sorry for the egg man who would clearly arrive home to his wife saying "jaysus Barbara went off on a right one today". Although maybe he wouldn't say anything to his wife for fear he might awaken the sleeping beast with her too.

But seriously, Christmas is a huge amount of hard work and yeah I do have offers of help but maybe I like playing the martyr or maybe I am a bit of a control freak but I generally do the lion's share of the donkey work myself.

Now back when the kids were smaller and I was relishing the surprising joy of being a 'housewife' (hate that term) I was a wee bit terrified at the thought of providing Christmas Dinner for extended family. It's not that making roast turkey with all the trimmings is that complicated but the trick was and still is getting everything to be ready at the same time. My Achilles heel is usually getting the roast potatoes sufficiently crispy without the vegetables going soft.

Actually I have two Achilles heels. The other is that every year I make two puddings – because I LOVE Christmas pudding but also, because, until last year, I always burn the arse off the first one. Then someone gave me the secret of placing a saucer under the pudding bowl – who knew? No more horrible smell of melted plastic in the kitchen followed by hours trying to scrape said stuff off my best heavy bottomed saucepan.

Anyway, by the time I actually get to eat my pudding I am red faced, in a sweat and completely exhausted and only slightly inebriated. Everyone else is merrily pulling crackers, well pissed and completely oblivious to my pain.

But I hate that I am beginning to be known as a Christmas Grinch. "Oh Barbara, she hates Christmas" people say about me. But it's really only the Christmas dinner shenanigans I hate. I love Christmas carols, I love cold crispy weather, I love the smell of a Christmas tree and the twinkle of the lights.

So this year I am going to attempt to make life a bit easier for myself. I am going to buy as much pre prepared stuff as I can. There is a voice in my head that says "ah but that's cheating and not very traditional" but feck that. I want to sit down without a red face and with enough energy to pull crackers with everyone else.

And the good news is that all the supermarkets are full of great ready prepared vegetables and prepared meats to make our lives easier. The good people at Centra let me have a look at what they have in store to help a tired housewife like me enjoy Christmas more. It looks like heaven.

From boned and rolled turkey (who needs turkey wings anyway), and ham joints to potato gratin and spouts with bacon. They also have desserts and party food and cheese boards. All the hard work done. Oh joy of joys.

I no longer need to prove I can cook a Christmas dinner for ten. Been there and done that too many times. No this year I am taking it easier and letting Centra do the heavy lifting.

I can't wait to tell the egg man!!! Now, where's that recipe for Mistletoe Mojitos?
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-66508968995767364172014-11-03T11:07:00.002+00:002014-11-03T11:07:38.954+00:00YOU'RE GRAND....

I love starting a post with "as regular readers will know". When I read this phrase elsewhere I always feel kind of slighted that perhaps I am not a regular a reader as I should be. So ...... as my esteemed and highly valued regular readers will know (are you feeling a little slighted yet?) I don't usually review books on my blog. But very occasionally a book will cross my desk that is a bit special. And this one is not only special but is the kind of book I wish I could write. because it's very fecking clever as well as very funny.

Shortly after the launch of You're Grand by Tara Flynn, a fellow journalist, tweeted that it was a grand read 'for the jacks' and he stressed that he meant that as a compliment. I would like to take serious issue with that. This is a book for the bath! Not the jacks. I read it over four long leisurely soaks in fragrant bubbles and it was the perfect place to delve into the wit and wisdom contained within its pages.

Why the bath I hear you say. Well this book may well be 'a secret guide to life' but it's much more than that. It may well be very funny (and it is, believe me). But along with the hilarity and the seemingly gentle tone there is a sharp edge of satire which any woman who has lived on this little damp rock in the North Atlantic will recognise.

However – and here is the clever bit – instead of leaving us, the women of Ireland, feeling very cross at having been 'shushed' and sidelined for decades, Tara constantly reminds us of where we came from. Throughout the book she mentions old pagan Ireland when we were Goddesses. And she hints time and again that (like cats) we haven't forgotten that fact.

So this book will remind you of all the crap we have put up with over centuries. But ultimately this book will raise your spirits and possibly even reconnect you with your inner Goddess. She hasn't gone away... she is still there. And where better to begin to uncover her than while pampering your body and relaxing your mind in a bath of warm bubbles.

Get your paws on a copy of 'You're Grand' and then buy one for your mammy and your best friend. The sooner we all remember who we really, the sooner this country will be on the way to be properly fixed.

Oh and by the way... even if you're not Irish and even if you don't even live here, you will find lots to enjoy in this book.. and you also could discover your inner Goddess... Let me know how you get on.. And don't forget to soak in the bath while you are at it!

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-61287533721479158332014-10-29T12:31:00.000+00:002014-10-29T18:19:49.771+00:00THE HEN HOUSE CELEBRATES ONE YEAR ON AIR

In the last year 58 amazing women have made the trip out to Dundrum Town Centre to be my guest on The Hen House. This week marks the programmes first birthday!

When I came up with the idea for the Hen House I worried that I would quickly run out of women who were willing to come and talk to me for an hour. I never doubted that there were lots of interesting and funny women out there.. but asking them for a large chunk of their afternoon to come into studio and be interviewed by yours truly was and is a big ask. I am very grateful to each and every one of you who have given me your time, your pearls of wisdom and some great laughs. But more than anything I want to thank you for using your voice to tell your story.

Some stories were intensely personal, some were related to your work and some were related to a cause you feel passionately about. But each of you gave your talent and your time very graciously and generously. And for that I am very grateful.

But more than all of that you women have made your voices heard. Amid the male dominated noise and chatter on our airwaves, The Hen House is providing women with a platform and a space to talk, to tell our stories.

These are the women who made the last year such a great experience for me personally and who have helped to redress the gender imbalance on air in Ireland:

Jillian Godsill, (on surviving bankruptcy)

June Shannon (medical journalist and mental health campaigner)

Joanna Fortune (child psychotherapist)

Sarina Bellissimo (broadcaster – Spin 1038)

Jill O Herlihy (PR supremo)

Eleanor Fitzsimons (writer)

Vanessa O Loughlin (all things writing)

Dil Wickremasinghe (broadcaster and social justice campaigner)

Caroline Grace Cassidy and Sorcha Furlong (actresses and writers)
Abby Wynne (healer)

Sinead Buckley Quinn (Design Loft in Powerscourt)

Andrea Hayes (broadcaster, TV Presenter and animal campaigner)

Mary Mitchell O Connor, TD

Michelle Jackson (author and travel writer)

Sharon Lawless (documentary maker)

Andrea Smith (journalist)

Janet O Sullivan (pagan, witch and feminist)

Orla O Connor (CEO NWCI)

Noirin Scully, Mairin Cullen and Stephanie Batt – wise older women

Maeve O Sullivan (poet)

Caroline Erskine (Women on Air former Chairperson)

Susan Lohan (Adoption Rights Alliance)

Carmen Browne (singer)

Elaine Lavery and Hannah O Reilly – Improper Butter

Aisling O Toole (Editor – Irish Country Magazine)

Ann Colgan, Jeanette Kavanagh, Ellen O Connor – local election candidates

Ailson Canavan (model, business women and mental health campaigner)

Denise Deegan (author)

Louise Bayliss (Spark) and Grainne Sherlock on lone parenting

Hazel Gaynor (author)

Margaret Scully (radio documentary maker and broadcaster)

Sinead Burke (fashionista, blogger and small person)

Jen McGuirk (actress and intrepid traveller)

Ellen Gunning (PR)

Muriel Bolger (author, journalist and travel writer)

Maria Duffy (author)

Grace Kelly, Aimee Corcoran and Megan Brady – the Class of 2014

Deirdre O Connor (care of the elderly)

Andrea Mara (office mum)

Dr Ger Scanlon and Laura Haugh – Education special

Jillian Van Turnhout – Senator

Hazel Larkin, (blogger and writer)

Irene Lowry, (CEO, Nurture)

Mary White, Senator

Vicki Mooney (Plus size models)

Helen Walsh (holistic fitness instructor)

Cindy O Connor and Trish Errity from Pieta House

Ciara Meehan (history lecturer and curator of Modern Wife, Modern Life exhibition)

Claire McGing (lecturer in political geography).

Thank you all so much...... And thanks to all of you have listened – either live or by listening back to the podcasts.

I am hoping that all of these past programmes will be available on the Hen House page on the Dublin South FM website in the not too distant future.

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-35487529107759361632014-10-25T12:59:00.000+01:002014-10-26T01:37:37.594+01:00Dear Enda.... about IRISH WATER
Yesterday on the Twitter machine, Dearbhail McDonald, Legal Editor with the Irish Independent posed the following question. "If @irishwater were to somehow start all over again, what advice would you give to the government?" 140 characters were not enough.

Dear Enda

There is little doubt that Irish Water a complete mess and a PR disaster. This is the result of rushing at it like a horny bull at a gate into a field of attractive cows, whose eyes are only on the prize, in your Government's case – the tax revenue. Remember what your mammy taught you – "fail to prepare, then prepare to fail."

But the Government has a bigger problem. The imposition of yet another tax on the beleaguered people of this country has finally pushed us to boiling anger. And this anger is not just, as some commentators would have us believe, because we live in a soggy country where it rains all the time resulting in our having some kind of psychological reluctance to pay for the very stuff that often makes us feel damp and miserable.

We are angry because we have had enough. We are angry because this is a tax too far. We are angry because we now know that in two years time most of us; especially those of us who live in urban centres are going to be fleeced with the unfair property tax that is calculated on value of our homes as opposed to square footage.

We are angry because this is how we are repaid for our compliance with all the austerity that has been forced upon us for debts that we didn't incur. It is the people who have allowed your Government and the previous one, to enforce the cuts and taxes that have given you great kudos abroad. Ireland's so called recovery is not your triumph – it belongs to the people of this country.

But we are now saying enough is enough. We have no more to give.

But let's park the anger for a moment. There is obviously a case to be made for the payment of water and the treatment of waste. In principle I would imagine most of us would accept this. So here is what I suggest you do. If, that is, you really are planning for an infrastructure project that will serve this country and our people for the next number of decades and not (as most of us suspect) you are just seeing Irish Water as another way to raise more tax Euros in the short term.

Streamlined, small efficient company

Irish Water should be in the first instance a small and very efficient company. It should not be a retirement home for workers who previously have been employed by the local councils. There should be no talk of bonuses or whatever other terms have been used to describe same. Ditto with car allowances and other nonsense.

Fix the leaks

In the first instance Irish Water should be charged with fixing the leaky system. And don't give us the line about how will they pay for it? If Dun Laoghaire Rathdown County Council can spend €33 million on a monster library, if the GAA can secure €30 million for the redevelopment of Pairc Ui Chaoimh, money will be found. How much have you spent on the other ill fated project currently on the table, the Children's Hospital? This year we will pay in the region of €4 billion in that other awful austerity tax the Universal Social Charge. As usual in politics – there is always the money - it's a question of priorities.

Grants for rainwater harvesting and other water conservation measures <o:p></o:p>

If water is as precious a resource as Irish Water have tried to tell us it is and if we are serious about changing our attitudes to water then it is vital that the Government introduce incentives to allow people to invest a little now in measures that would conserve water in the future. To me this is a glaring omission to the current plan for introducing water charges. Bringing in such incentives would also have a positive PR bounce as it would give the impression that instead of being ripped off we are all in this together. See how we took to recycling? We can easily do similar with water conservation.

Install meters

Once the company is seen to be fit for purpose and the leaky system has been brought into the 21st century, then Irish Water can begin the process of fitting meters. But could I suggest that most people would like a meter that they could read easily – similar to the ESB or Gas Meter and not something that exists solely under the ground at the end of the driveway. We have never paid for water as a separate utility before and most of us have little or no idea about how much we actually use. It is vital to build trust so a meter that is visible to householders I think is essential.

When all of the above has been completed then it is appropriate to announce a date for billing to start. I would suggest no earlier than 2020.

Finally – once we are paying for water – there should be no talk of call out charges. If there is a gas leak – do we have to pay the Gas Company to attend? <o:p></o:p>

I know that as Taoiseach you are surrounded by advisors that cost me and the rest of us plenty money. You might like to review their input Enda. Because Irish Water is rapidly going to go down in history as the biggest government mess ever – eclipsing the E Voting machines and Children's Hospital and Incinerator messes that have preceded it.

Once you start bullying your electorate Enda you lose them. This project needs to be completely reimagined. Irish Water needs to be completely overhauled before you can do anything. Then slowly, bringing your people with you, there might be some chance of success. And your legacy may just survive... and I know that's very important. Not to us... but to you and your fellow Ministers.

Sincerely

Barbara Scully

P.S oh and by the way Enda, tinkering about with allowances etc is not going to quell the anger... in fact it may do exactly the opposite. We know you are on the ropes on this one... it's time for time out and a total rethink and redesign.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-39752008867986049822014-09-30T22:16:00.000+01:002014-09-30T22:16:45.266+01:00SEPTEMBER... THE MOST DELICIOUS MONTH
It happens usually in mid August. There will be an evening when the air carries a little extra chill and suddenly you become aware that autumn is waiting in the wings of the day, just beyond your perception. It is the gentlest of whispers, carried on the breeze that signals summer is in decline and we are actually slipping slowly and quietly into autumn. My cats usually pick up on this subtle change in the air too and they have already staked out their favourite places to sleep in various parts of the house, their summer wanderlust exhausted.

Perhaps it's our Celtic DNA but I have no doubt that the old Irish calendar is right and we are now in Mean Fomhair – the middle of autumn. The leaves have yet to turn and the weather is still mild but summer is over. We have arrived at the evening of the year.

September is a particularly delicious month. After the slack routines and exertions of summer, order is restored as the children return to their studies. The new academic year offers us all a chance for a new beginning. Another chance to make the changes to our lives or lifestyles we may have pondered as we lay soaking up the rays of summer sunshine. September is a hopeful month and yet a month that makes no demands of us with no festivals or bank holidays. It is not surprising that in a recent survey in the UK less than one percent of those surveyed nominated September as the most stressful month of the year. The most stressful honour went, unsurprisingly to January, followed closely by December.

But what makes September particularly worth savouring is that it is a month which signals a slowing down. Autumn is when Mother Nature draws her energy inward, as the leaves fall and the earth prepares for the long winter sleep. Me, I make preparations for the long winter nights. September makes me look again at my living space to see how I might make it cosy and warm. All it might take is a new throw for the sofa and a load of wood logs in the basket ready for the first fire. By the end of the month I will have made the excursion under my bed to retrieve the storage boxes that hold my winter hoodies and fleeces, clothes that only require any old body as opposed to a supposedly 'beach ready body' we need for summer wear. Which is just as well as September is all about my kind of food.

In preparation for the frugal winter, nature is giving up her harvest. Orchards are full of fallen apples and anyone can savour the rich bounty of the hedgerows which are now bursting with berries. It is the month for apple and blackberry crumble and time to replace cream with warm custard. It is the month when menus change – domestic ones anyway, with the welcome reintroduction of warming food like shepherd's pie, bangers and mash and big pots of spicy vegetable soup. Slowing down and comfort food, what more could you want?

But there is more. September is also the most sensual of months. The air smells different carrying perhaps a hint of wood smoke or bonfire. The light softens, lending a warm glow to the landscape as the sun moves away from us. The countryside and parks are a riot of autumnal colour in hues of russet and gold and red and orange. It is a month to get out and walk, savouring the smells, the colours and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. And a chance to visit your inner child by reliving the thrill of finding and collecting pocketfuls of wine-red shiny chestnuts.

September is like climbing into your own freshly made bed after a wonderful, busy, fun holiday. It is like coming home after a hard day's work to a warm welcoming house, closing your front door and knowing you won't have to venture out into the world again till tomorrow. It's like putting on your comfiest slippers after a day in fabulous but rather painful shoes. It's the feeling that all is well with the world that sometimes comes with the first sip of red wine. September is all about just being rather than doing.

Maybe in a former life I was a bear. Perhaps that is why I love this month so much. But I am ready to waddle, book in one hand, hot chocolate in the other, into my fireside where I will park myself on a comfy chair, put a soft blanket over my legs and a cat on my lap and I will while away many happy evenings. And best of all about September? It precedes October. Oh how I love October.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-11184427579370430402014-09-05T15:18:00.000+01:002014-09-05T15:18:50.829+01:00LET'S JUDGE A PAUSE THERE SISTERS.....

Sometimes being a feminist is kind of confusing. It is very easy to become hyper aware of anything that could be viewed as being degrading to us women. And if you look hard enough you will find such things everywhere.

But it is vital that before we decry the culprit that we take a wee moment to think. I know that I don't want to live in a world where we are ultra politically correct all the time at the expense of our ability to laugh at ourselves – individually or collectively. Therefore when your senses are assaulted by an image which shouts 'foul' or 'this is sexist' as a friend of mine says 'judge a pause'.

Three such images appeared in the media this week. As first glance all three looked sexist but in actual fact only one was.... in my humble anyway.

First up was the full page ad that Today FM took out to announce two new male presenters of their lunchtime show. The ad featured a bra with the male presenters featuring in each cup and there was a tag line of Double D a play on the image and the fact that the presenters are called Dermot and Dave.

Next one that crossed my consciousness was the image used in a campaign that has just been launched by Concern and Women's Aid called 'Are You Man Enough To Walk In Her Shoes' There was a cartoon image of a male figure in a pair of high stilettos. I guess is asking men to try to imagine what it feels like to be a woman – and a vulnerable one at that.

The last image of the week appeared in the Irish Times yesterday. It was a PR shot to announce the Cancer Society's Paint It Pink campaign. It featured RTE presenter Keelin Shanley (a breast cancer survivor) dressed in pink holding a tin of paint and a very attractive bare chested young man up a ladder supposedly painting the door. As someone who worked in PR and the partner of a professional photographer it was most definitely a cracking photo which drew the eye in immediately. The image was also used in The Journal and can be seen here.

So your honour, which of these images is guilty of being sexist? Only the first one. Why? Like most other things in life, because of the context. This ad featuring male presenters' faces on a bra is sexist because it was put out by a radio station that has not one female presenter presenting a daytime show during the week. It is boys radio and so therefore cannot use women's breasts to advertise a programme not matter how clever the play on words. If the station doesn't think that women should present primetime radio shows, then they can leave our underwear out of their campaigns. So Foul and Sexist can be correctly labelled to this ill conceived campaign.

The second campaign 'Are You Man Enough To Walk In Her Shoes' I don't have a problem with even though I don't own and never had owned a pair of high shoes. But I know that makes me the exception rather than the rule where women are concerned. Most women I know own and wear high heels – not every day maybe but regularly. Therefore it's fair enough to use this fact to come up with a fun campaign to raise money for vulnerable women. And high heels do make women vulnerable... but that's a different column.

Lastly, the PR photo for cancer that featured Keelin Shanley and male model Darragh Hayes was simply a great photo. Mr Hayes is a model doing what he does best – looking delicious. Irish (female) models regularly post in bikinis to promote all range of weird and wonderful products. Yes I agree it's a lazy photocall but I believe if we even up the score a bit – more handsome chaps looking.. handsome I can live with it. I am not sure I want to live in a world where being able to admire a beautiful body is outlawed in case it offends someone. As long as it is models that are used and the score is even – as many men as women – so what?

As we become more aware of women being undermined and belittled we are in danger of over reacting. We need to bear that in mind, sisters!

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-67516207139013971982014-08-15T16:13:00.000+01:002014-08-15T16:13:18.389+01:00WHAT ARE WE AFRAID OF?
I am afraid to watch the television news at the moment. I am afraid of what I might see. I am afraid of the nightmares that might result. I am afraid of images that will burn into my brain and resurface at some time in the future. I am afraid to confront the reality of what is happening in the Middle East. I can't seem to process what I am hearing and reading. I don't know how to react or what to do about the horror that seems to be spreading through the region.

I don't understand the politics of the area beyond the most simplistic outline of recent history. I don't pretend to have any particular insight into the cultures of the Middle East. But what is going on right now in Syria, Gaza and Iraq in particular is beyond politics. It is beyond reason. There can be no excuses, no justification for the cruelty and the barbarism that has become rampant.

It began with the killing of children in Gaza. How can there ever be a reason to bomb a school? And it happened not once but at least twice. Day after day, week after week, we saw photos of these broken little innocent bodies as they lay dead or dying. This destruction not caused by some madman on a solo rampage but by a sovereign nation's army. Big, well armed men, killing tiny children. How can that ever, ever be justified? It was evil when it was done by the provisional IRA bombing campaigns and it is wrong now. No matter what history has done to a people, no matter what injustices have been perpetrated against them, killing and maiming children is a war crime.

There is little worse in my mind than killing babies but the depravity of the violence in Iraq in recent days is just beyond comprehension. It's like hearing the story line of some very violent and sick movie. I have skimmed reports that have mentioned crucifixion, beheading, and dogs feeding on bodies. I have seen reference to a photo of a young boy, the son of a fighter holding the head (just the head) of a man – the enemy. He is another young child who is lost to war. I have read about women being taken in large numbers to be sold or raped. I can't do more than skim the reports because the detail is too shocking, too sickening, too upsetting.

And if that sounds like a very wimpish and, dare I say it, girly response that's because it is.

The countries of Syria, Gaza and Iraq are populated by ordinary families and by women who are far more like me than they are different. Women who are mothers too and whose lives revolve around caring for their families and particularly their children, feeding them, loving them, educating them and protecting them.

And it is these women and their children who are increasingly haunting my dreams. I see the fear and the horror in the eyes that stare at me from the appalling images that are carried on news bulletins and in the press.

Somehow I feel that these women, who have suffered appallingly, who have lost children and loved ones, who live with the threat of rape, know that I know what is going on.

And I am struck dumb by not being able to process these stories. I have taken weeks to try to even write this blog post. I can't articulate a response to this horror. Anything I say or write seems wholly inadequate. But yet to do and say nothing is to ignore those eyes I know are looking at me. Looking at us. Wondering when we are at least going to say something, to condemn what is patently immoral.

Our government didn't represent me when they chose to abstain from the UN vote on Gaza recently. If any country on this planet should be able to identify with injustice, violence and the need to broker peace it should be Ireland. So it is doubly shameful that we chose not to stand up, to speak out. Our President has spoken only informally on this matter, stymied as he is by the constraints of his office. Perhaps he is also afraid to watch the news, afraid of what he might see. What the hell is wrong with us?
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-67023676563169899112014-08-01T13:01:00.000+01:002014-08-01T13:01:57.142+01:00HE WAS SOME CAT....

16 years is a long time to live with someone regardless of how many legs they have. In our house we live with as many four leggeds as with two leggeds and the bonds of love are strong.

This week our oldest four legged – Simba died. He had been in decline for months but my philosophy for elderly animals is that as long as they are enjoying life I would prefer them to fade slowly away. I am not inclined to interfere with nature's natural leisurely journey towards the end unless there is pain or discomfort involved. Simba had lost weight and also his hearing but he was happy and still enjoying life right until the last day or so.

It was Carla, our eldest who brought Simba home to our first house in Shankill when she was about 11 years old. She found him in some old woman's shed where a cat had just had kittens and the old woman said she could keep him. He was probably a bit too young to have been taken from his mother but I had a baby myself and probably wasn't fully paying attention and so Simba stayed.

He was cute like all kittens are and very playful. But as he got older we discovered a dark quirk to his large rambunctious personality. He wasn't that keen on children or older people. It began when he took a swipe at some of the cousins, all of whom were very young. He missed but we realised that if young visitors came to the house we would have to lock Simba into a room for their safety.

This was also a problem when we hosted parties for the girls, with lots of kids running about the house Simba was invariably released from his captivity. So with the next party on the horizon I decided to visit the vet and investigate how best to deal with his behavioural quirk. The vet advised some behavioural realignment using cat valium. Yes, I kid you not. I came away with a month's supply of cat valium which would hopefully teach Simba to chill and not attack children.

The problem with the cat valium was that they were tiny tablets and the vet told me administer one quarter of a tablet per day. So for three days I attempted to quarter a tiny tablet which resulted in bits of cat valium bits about my kitchen. Not ideal when I now had two small children who spent a lot of time crawling about on the floor. So I gave up. Instead I decided that I would administer a tablet on the day of the party to keep him calm and the visiting children safe.

Simba was a pig when it came to food so it was no problem to get him to take the tablet. I will never forget the faces of the parents who dropped their little darlings off, when they spied a huge fat cat comatose on the back of an armchair with his mouth open and tongue hanging out. He was happily out of his head for hours... and no one got hurt at the party. The supply of cat valium lasted through the parties at home stage and Simba had no recollection of any of them.

Simba grew up into a huge, lazy, vocal, affectionate cat who loved being around us and in the house. In winter no one got as excited as he did on a cold evening when we lit the fire. He would be in, staking his place in front of the hearth at the first sound of coal being rattled.

He grew and grew so much that I got tired of visitors asking when 'she' was due to give birth. Then someone arrived one day who looked at me as if I were really thick. "That cat has a tumour or something" he said. "I've never seen a cat that size. Have you taken him to the vet?" "No", I said sheepishly.

Next day, full of guilt I took Simba to the vet. "What's the problem" he said. I recounted the story of the man who said he must have a tumour. The vet examined Simba and then asked me two questions.

"Does he eat a lot?"

"Oh yeah," I said "he loves his food"

"Does he take much exercise?"

"Em, no not really," I answered "he likes to be indoors, with us. He's kind of lazy"

"Exactly," said the vet. "He's just fat. Fine but fat."

We were kindred spirits in many ways – me and Simba.

He was a constant in our house for the last 16 years. He loved dinner time – watching me as I prepared food in the hope that I would drop a tasty morsel for him. He would then join us at the table – sitting on a free chair preferably at the head of the table from where he would listen to our conversations and wonder what our food tasted like.

He thumped down off beds and down the stairs in the manner of a large child. He talked a lot and was the only cat who always answered us when we greeted him.

Although he had issues with some two leggeds he loved other cats. We have fostered many kittens and older cats for the DSPCA and Simba never objected to a new arrival. In fact without Simba we would have struggled to win around some of our very nervous fosters. It was Simba who would give them the confidence to come out of hiding and feel safe in the world. His greatest achievement in this regard was the rehabilitation of Oprah, the feral kitten who came to us at Christmas.

Simba was the last of our first generation of cats. In hindsight we should have staggered our cat adoptions a bit better. Like the way most of our white goods blew up in year seven of our marriage, over the last 18 months or so I have held the paws of four beloved cats as they left this world.

Simba knew the end was near and took himself off to die at the end of the garden. Unfortunately he (we assume) took a tumble into a little inaccessible stream at the end of our garden and it took us some hours to locate him. In the end it was Mia (13) who found him and she had to come back to get help to reach him. While she did that, another of our cats, Diego took up position beside the dying Simba until Paul arrived with a ladder and took poor Simba home.

He was weak and his body was shutting down so bundling him into a soft blanket we took him to the emergency veterinary hospital in UCD where they agreed that we should help him on his journey. So he died as he lived – mainly peacefully with a bit of drama.

We took him home with us and on Wednesday evening in a soft rain, as the light drained from the sky, Paul dug a grave for our beloved boy and we lay him to sleep by the lilac tree in the garden. Diego watched from the wall.

We now have four young cats – the oldest is about 2 and so I guess in another 15 years or so I will once again be shedding salty tears as they take their leave. It's always sad and you never get used to it. But it is a tribute to the animals any of us chose to live with, that they connect with us in a deep and meaningful way, that they colour every day of the life we live together and that they become true members of the family.

Simba will live on in our hearts and the stories of his life will be told for years to come. He was some cat!

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-71410939012803539002014-07-15T09:19:00.000+01:002014-07-15T09:19:14.169+01:00THE BEST OF TIMES
Oh, how my summers have changed...

Clichéd and all as it sounds, it really does just seem like only yesterday, that summer holidays from school started with a trip to the Zoo. The first sunny day after the kids finished in early July I would pack up the car with all necessary supplies and we would head over to the Phoenix Park. There we would pass happy hours marvelling at the exotic creatures until they started to flag – the children that is, not the exotic creatures. The final few enclosures could be a bit tortuous but it was always a great day, well except for the traffic on the quays on the way home.

Summer also meant a visit to Glenroe Farm in Wicklow, usually with the cousins. A good summer meant we may get there more than once. With the sun on our backs we would wander around talking to donkeys, cows and pigs before finally choosing a picnic table or two on which we would spread our food and treats. Afterwards the kids would do another round of the animals or just spend an hour in 'pets corner' while the mammies and the grannies stayed and chatted or gossiped. It was bliss.

But days out weren't always so organised. Most summers we had countless picnics in the local park which has a great playground which would keep them amused for at least an hour while I read my book. Or we could go to the river bank – well stream bank really – with our fishing nets to catch pinkeens – on the strict understanding we threw them back. Or we could just sit on the grass making daisy chains or eating ice cream.

Other days we could head to the beach at Killiney for a walk and for skimming stones or to Sandycove for a paddle.

The last summer treat, which began as they got a little older, was to take a trip down the N11 to Bray. Old fashioned fun which carried echoes of my own childhood as we sampled rides on the bumper cars, the ghost train and the Waltzers. We also had a budget amount of small change to lose on the slot machines. The best part of the day though was ending with a bag of chips and a coke consumed in the car as we watched the sea through rapidly steaming up windows.

I miss eating chips from a bag in the car. I miss paddling. I miss daisy chains. Hell I even miss catching pinkeens.

But we weren't always out. Every summer began in the hope of lots of warm weather and so we bought a paddling pool which over the years got bigger and very slightly more sophisticated. But we had one rule for our paddling pool – it had to be able to accommodate the end of the garden slide. On those sunny days, before water charges were even a glint in a Minister's eye, I would rig up the garden hose to the top of the slide and off they would go; an aqua park in the back garden. It made a muddy mess of the lawn and many bushes got permanently damaged from small bodies careering into them at high speed but it was the best of craic, even just for the observer.

As the summer slipped towards autumn, we bought new schoolbags and school socks in Dunnes Stores and assembled the books for the coming year without needing a mortgage.

We also paid a visit to the toy store and the art shop to treat ourselves to some indoor activities for the winter; games and crafts and colouring books and crayons. God I miss the excuse to lie on the floor for an hour colouring in. Talk about being in the moment – 'colouring in' is the most amazing de-stresser.

I miss spending hours in the kids section of the bookshop among so many beautifully illustrated and magical books.

But that's what happens with kids – suddenly your sunny, exuberant, up for anything darlings leave junior school and head into secondary. They get very tall and all of a sudden you are not great craic anymore (well you are, but never in public).

And while as a parent you relish the new freedom their independence affords you, there are things you will miss and will probably continue to miss until some day you will be called 'granny' and get to do them again.

But until that day comes, I vow that this summer I will return to the Zoo - on my own if necessary. I might even paddle in Sandycove. And come late August if you spot me in the local toy shop buying a colouring book and a box of crayons.... say nothing. Oh and it is true that we view the past through rose tinted specs.... but they were the best of times.... honestly.

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-4932394737204822162014-07-07T18:32:00.000+01:002014-07-07T18:32:19.425+01:00It's that time again... SUMMER READ RECOMMENDATIONS

As usual here are my top picks for Summer Reading for you.... You are very welcome!!

My very top recommendation goes to THE ROSIE PROJECT by Graeme Simsion

This is an Australian story in the true tradition of Australian stories in that it's quirky and witty and warm. It's the story of a nerdy, highly intelligent Genetics Professor called Don Tillman and his attempt to find a life partner. But it's not really that. It's a love story... but it's not really that either. It's about relationships, control, love, food, travel and everything else that is important in life!

It will make you laugh and it will engage you totally. I read it in just over 24 hours and I didn't want it to end. The film rights have been purchased... doubt the movie could match the book though. It's a cracker.

Next up is WOMAN UPSTAIRS by Claire Messud.

This is an unusual choice for me because although it's a beautifully crafted book, the main character is not totally likeable. Nora Eldridge has been a good girl all her life. She is a great teacher to third grade. She lives alone, is childless and looking after her elderly dad. But she is also an artist who doesn't 'art'! Those closest to her have no idea that she is unhappy, unfulfilled and craving a life that she glimpses through a new boy in her class.

It's not the easiest read but the main theme is one that I feel will particularly resonate with women who generally fulfil multiple roles in their lives while often subjugating what it is they really want to do. It was an interesting read for that reason.

STILL ALICE is by Lisa Genova is a beautiful book that tells the story of Alice and her journey into Alzheimer's Disease. It's gracefully told and is set in one of my favourite places – Boston and Cape Cod.

The main character Alice is not an elderly lady in the final decade of her life – she is a 50 year old Professor of Linguistics at Harvard University. She is very much a career woman with three grown up children.

What strikes me most about this book is its central message. It is a message that I know something about from years working for The Alzheimer Society of Ireland and of watching my mother in law lose her memories to dementia. That message is that behind the disease – our main character is Still Alice!

A moving but not depressing read. I highly recommend it.

SUMMER OF 76 by Isabel Ashdown was recommended to me by a Twitter friend after I had written a piece about The Last Summer – you know that delicious summer you leave school and stand of the cusp of life. For the record - my last summer was in 1979! You can read my piece here.

The actual summer of '76 was remarkable for the heatwave that hit Ireland and Britain. Temperatures soared and people sizzled. Our story is set around the main character Luke who is enjoying his last months at home on the Isle of Wight before he heads off to college. It's a momentous summer of coming of age, of male friendships and at the centre is a salacious scandal that shocks the local community.

Again this book is well written and will have huge resonances with anyone who was a teenager in the 70s with the references to music and styles of the time.

This book for me is everything a summer read should be.

Now can I mention some Irish books that I haven't read yet as they have all just or are about to hit the bookshops.

First up is Maria Duffy's latest offering ONE WISH which tells the tale of Londoner Becky Greene who moves to Ireland for a fresh start only to find herself pregnant after a one night stand. Four years later and her daughter is asking questions about her father. So Becky decides to track him down. Maria is a prolific writer and this book is sure to be another goodie. It launches this week but is in bookshops now.

Muriel Bolger is one of Ireland's best known and most experienced travel writers who has taken to writing fiction in the last few years with some great success. I have just started her latest book called THE PINK PEPPER TREE. Muriel's books always feature travel which is why they are such great summer reads and this latest one is no different with a trip to Monte Carlo featuring prominently. Sure what's not to like?

Caroline Grace Cassidy is another talented Irish writer whose story telling style often reminds me of Maeve Binchey. Her last book The Other Side of Wonderful was an engaging tale but with a dark edge which was deftly handled. Caroline is putting the finishing touches to her

latest story "I ALWAYS KNEW" which is out in August. I am confident it will be another great story.

Finally anyone who was moved The Diving Bell and The Butterfly will be interested in IT'S NOT YET DARK by Simon Fitzmaurice. In 2008 Simon was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease. He was given four years to live. Against medical opinion he chose to ventilate in order to stay alive. This book tells us starkly and clearly about his inner life, the power of love and living every moment.

So there you have it.. and like old Uncle Gaybo used to say every year on The Toy Show about giving the gift of reading to a child... let me say what I say twice every year... don't buy online if you can support your local bookshop.

If money is tight – remember we are lucky in Ireland to still have a great network of libraries.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-80822897900152363232014-06-16T12:28:00.001+01:002014-06-16T12:41:27.685+01:00Not Such A Great Little Country After All
I have tried and failed about three times to write this post. It has been really difficult to work out my feelings about the revelations concerning the treatment of mothers and babies in Ireland in the very recent past. As a woman and a mother and indeed as a former single parent myself there is something deeply unnerving and disquieting to learn that your country, the place you live, the place that is rooted deeply in your bones, the place that defines so much of you has been hiding such dark and cruel stories for decades.

I took my youngest daughters to see the movie 'Philomena' when it was in cinemas some months back. They are 13 and 15 and their usual choice of movies is a mix of fantasy and American pop culture... Philomena was something very different. But they were both moved and disturbed by the story. What bothered them most was that this was an Irish story and a recent one too.

It is often remarked on how we still love to be told we are great. Only on an Irish chat show will the first question asked of a visiting superstar be "and how are you finding Ireland, do you like it?" Which has to be the stupidest question ever because what do we honestly expect a visiting movie star on a PR trip for their latest movie to say? "Well actually I am very disappointed. I find your country dirty and the standard of service is appalling." No of course not. They all say "oh I love it. I hope to come back soon and spend more time here." Our sense of our own wonderfulness established, the interview can continue.

It would be easy at this point to heap all the blame for the cruelty of how single pregnant women and girls were treated at the feet of religious orders. The orders certainly carry a huge burden of responsibility and their callousness should be recorded for posterity. They must be held to account and their track record of intransigence and tight fistedness should not be tolerated for one day longer.

But we must also accept that we all bear responsibility for this dark chapter in our history. It was the families and communities in which these women and girls lived that sent them into the arms of the nuns who were clearly overwhelmed. And it is this complicity, our complicity that will haunt our sense of ourselves for decades to come.

There is little we can do from this remove to heal the hurt caused to the thousands of women whose babies either died or were taken from them for adoption. We cannot rewrite history. But if we don't learn from it we are likely to repeat the mistakes, the injustices and the cruelty over and over again.

Right now in Ireland adopted people are still having great difficulty in accessing their birth information. We must pressure the government to amend this situation immediately. Today in Ireland Traveller babies have a higher mortality rate than the general population and many Traveller children are living in appalling conditions. Funding to Traveller services was cut by 80% during this period of so called austerity. Next month lone parents are facing another cut in their payments when their youngest child turns seven years of age. Today there are thousands of immigrant families caught in 'direct provision' which is having a detrimental effect especially on their children. What are we doing about all these children?

I love this country. We have produced great writing and great music. We have a unique sense of fun and invented 'the craic' which is beyond explanation. We are masters of irreverence and have an interesting relationship with authority. We have some of the most stunning scenery on the planet. We have much to be proud of.

But we also have much to be deeply ashamed of. For decades I think our history of colonisation, of being a victim of British dominance has defined us. We were this little nation whose influence has spread all over the world; this little nation who after centuries of failed attempts finally shook off our oppressor and gained our freedom. Weren't we just wonderful altogether?

We are now coming to terms that we are not quite as wonderful as we thought. Our treatment of Mothers and Babies for most of the twentieth century is surely one of the most shameful episodes in any countries history. And we have no one else to blame. We, as a nation facilitated the church in its abuse of these young women and their babies. Right now we are again turning a blind eye to many injustices which are impacting Irish children. Are we content to continue to allow our Government to unfairly target groups that are vulnerable in the pursuit of financial stability? Are some children once again worth more than others?

The last three weeks have changed fundamentally how I feel about my Irishness. I am still proud to call myself Irish. But I think that feeling of smug self confidence in my nationality, that one that Irish chat show hosts love to reinforce is gone. I can only assume that this is a good thing.

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-57231761951862407512014-06-04T12:33:00.000+01:002014-06-04T12:33:38.257+01:00Ni Neart Go Cur Le Cheile
"Be yourself, because if you can get away with it, it is the ultimate feminist act."

Liz Phair – American Singer/Songwriter

According to the Oxford English Dictionary Feminism is "the advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes." The two words that jump out of that sentence are rights and equality. Surely every woman has the right to make her own choices and live her own life as she sees fit. You see, for me feminism is as much about choice and freedom as it is about equality. <o:p></o:p>

And that right there is why I often find myself getting very depressed when feminist women (rarely men) get angry when a woman puts forward a vision of fulfilment that doesn't rate climbing the career ladder her major priority in life. <o:p></o:p>

Over the last few days we have had another stunning example of how we women seem to find it next to impossible to accommodate views that do not fit neatly with ours. Kirsty Allsop is the latest feminist to find herself in very hot water with the mainstream feminists who have been ranting and raving about her in our newspapers and on social media. You see Kirsty has opinions and has never been afraid to express them. Surely this is what feminists are all about? Having women's voices heard? Not apparently if your opinions run contrary to the mainstream feminist view which seems to be all about achieving in education and career. <o:p></o:p>

Ms Allsopp had the audacity to say in a wide ranging interview with The Telegraph that she thought that "women are being let down by the system. We should speak honestly and frankly about fertility and the fact it falls off a cliff when you're 35. We should talk openly about university and whether going when you're young, when we live so much longer, is really the way forward."

She went on to say that if she had a daughter (she has two sons) she would advise her to postpone university and to concentrate on having a family while she was young and doing the career and university thing later on. She further said in an interview with Newsnight that she would have the same conversation with her boys.

Whether she is right or wrong is irrelevant. The point is that she has every right to express her opinion. She wasn't saying that this is what every woman should do but that it is what she would advise her offspring to do. But the immediate rubbishing of her view along with plenty of derogatory commentary concerning her background (which is reasonably wealthy by all accounts) and her work with interiors, design and crafting surely runs contrary to what feminism should be all about?

For generations women have passed down wisdom and stories along with recipes from mother to daughter; precious nuggets of knowledge borne from experience of our grandmothers. In our enthusiasm for full equality we have narrowed our vision about what it is to be a woman – what it is to be a feminist.

Some of the greatest feminist women I know are working quietly in the home, caring for children, their aged parents and their household. They have little if any interest in board rooms or glass ceilings. Are there views on life less worthy? Are these women some lesser species of feminist?

We need to be very careful of becoming too macho in our pursuit of full equality and freedom. Actress Natalie Portman said "I want every version of a woman and a man to be possible. I want women and men to be able to be full-time parents or full-time working people or any combination of the two. I want both to be able to do whatever they want sexually without being called names. I want them to be allowed to be weak and strong and happy and sad – human, basically. The fallacy in Hollywood is that if you're making a "feminist" story, the woman kicks ass and wins. That's not feminist, that's macho. A movie about a weak, vulnerable woman can be feminist if it shows a real person that we can empathize with."

Before we can change the world we must change ourselves. As a women's movement we must recognise that we women are as different as we are the same. We don't all necessarily want the same things. Equality is essentially about choice. The choice to be yourself. It is vital that we recognise the right of each woman to make the choices that are right for her. And we need to support each other regardless of how we personally view those choices.

So if Kirsty Allsopp wants to tell her children that they might consider fertility and plan a family early and put off career advancement till later, that is fine. It is another way of doing things. No more and no less valid that waiting until you are established in your career for the babies.

But women can we please stop being so critical of other women whose views don't chime with ours. We are often our own worst enemies... Ni neart go cur le cheile (no strength without unity)

Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-89321309269381328172014-06-03T10:48:00.002+01:002014-06-03T10:48:35.059+01:00A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTERFor the day that's in it.... and this comes with best wishes to all who are sitting Junior and Leaving Cert Exams tomorrow...

A LETTER TO MY DAUGHTER…..<o:p></o:p>

Dear Eldest Daughter:<o:p></o:p>

It is 8 o'clock on a cold, autumn evening and the house is quiet. I am sitting here at the kitchen table, with my cup of coffee, in the company of Doc, the old cat. The clock keeps steady time, marking out the seconds with a deep ticking. All is well. All is settled. <o:p></o:p>

But my sense of peace is rattled slightly by something in the air. A vague tension stirs my sense of tranquillity. My own inner peace and the conspiring quiet of the house, allows my senses to pick up an energy which is seeping through the ceiling…… from your room.<o:p></o:p>

Without visiting your room, I can picture you clearly. Sitting, bent over your desk. Your face lit by the desk lamp which also drops a pool of yellow light onto the dog eared pages of your notes. Your face is tense and your forehead holds furrows of stress as you attempt to force the information from the page into your brain. In front of you, your notice board is full of post-its and timetables. Reminders of what has still to be done and highlighting deadlines which loom menacingly in the middle distance. I am so proud of the way you are tackling your study, albeit it in a room which looks as if it has just been raided. <o:p></o:p>

I was 18 once and I was where you are now. I can remember so well, the constant feeling of drowning slowly in a sea of home-work and study. Like you, I was sure that my whole life path would be determined by my Leaving Cert. The grand finale of my school days loomed like a huge mountain which had to be scaled alone. And I too thought that my ability to climb this mountain would determine how the world would view me as a person for the rest of my life.<o:p></o:p>

Oh my child….. if only you could have the gift of seeing into your future. If only you could know what it has taken me 30 years to know. Your life path is already determined. You, the person you are, is already set. This exam, once done, will fade so quickly in its importance that it will leave you wondering if you dreamt it all up. <o:p></o:p>

But I cannot tell you all this. Not now. You have to do what you have to do. And just now, life is presenting you with this challenge which will consume you and your spirit for the coming months. And this too is part of your life path. <o:p></o:p>

So I sit here at my kitchen table, decades further down the road from you and I write you this letter. I will not send it. No, I will date it and keep it safe and on the last day of your exams I will give it to you. As you embrace your new found freedom and walk proudly out of school and into the world, know that I have always known what a wonderful human being you are. Know that the world will not look for your exam results in order to understand what a kind, caring, good person you are. <o:p></o:p>

So as you read this, some day in June, I say congratulations to you, my daughter – you have arrived on the other side of the mountain. And as you stride from school for the last time, stop and look back at the building where you have been guided and encouraged and taught for the last six years. And behind the school, can you see the mountain. And look, already it is shrinking.<o:p></o:p>

With love always<o:p></o:p>

Your mother
Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-4959942320899899612014-05-14T14:04:00.000+01:002014-05-14T14:04:27.858+01:00WOMEN ON AIR... MAKING PROGRESS
I was really pleased to attend the inaugural 'Women On Air' conference this week in the magnificent surroundings of Dublin Castle. Walking across the upper yard of one of Dublin's most iconic locations on a sunny morning was just stunning. As I carefully picked my way on the cobblestones I was vaguely aware of the centuries of history that was all around me; ghosts of the British administration and laterally the whisperings that signified subterfuge and intrigue as Ireland pushed for independence.

There was no subterfuge however at the 'Women on Air' event which was officially opened by Minister for Communications Pat Rabbitte, who didn't annoy me at all with his speech. He was followed by Margaret E Ward who outlined how 'Women on Air' came into being after a 'debate' on Twitter. I was a silent witness to that debate back in 2010 and felt a frisson of excitement when Margaret along with former radio producer Helen McCormack decided to organise a seminar which was aimed at providing tips and support for women who wished to go on air.

Back in 2010 I was a .... here we go again... housewife (I HATE THAT TERM – but all others are equally grating) buried deep in suburban Cabinteely. However my children were 23, 11 and 9 and I was itching to get involved back in the world of work and had decided to attempt to pursue my passion of writing and talking! I had done a few radio interviews before in my previous career as PRO for a national charity and it was a medium I found very comfortable. I also passionately wanted to hear more women's voices and more importantly women's stories on air.

So taking my courage in both hands I sent a very timid tweet to Margaret E Ward asking if it might be possible to attend this planned seminar. It was.

The seminar took place on Tuesday 12th of October and was held in the National Library at 6:30pm. I got there way too early and heading to the coffee shop for a coffee while I waited. As I sat on my own in the empty cafe the voice in my head grew louder and louder saying "what the hell are you doing?", "go home, you eejit, why on earth would you consider yourself part of this?"

As I walked towards the lecture theatre, I tried to counter the feeling of seasickness and terror. There were lots of women milling about and they all seemed to know each other. The voice in my head was now in a right panic. "No-one knows you – turn around and leave before you make a show of yourself". I tried to keep my face looking calm and confident as I negotiated a place to sit when I suddenly saw one face that was familiar. I had met writer Eleanor Fitzsimons just a week or so earlier at a book launch and we had chatted. Thankfully she remembered me and I clung on to her like she was a life-raft in treacherous seas.

Later that evening I met Helen McCormack, who asked me if I would be willing to come into studio on a news review panel on the Tom McGuirk programme, which she produced on 4FM.

So on that night four years ago, I arrived into the city a bag of nerves, wondering what the hell I was doing. But thanks to the support, encouragement and faith of just three women I went home wondering if it might actually be possible to pursue a new career in the media... or what Fiona Looney (bless her) calls my midlife crisis media career.

Women on Air has come a long way since October 2010 and I guess I have made some progress on the journey too. Change is definitely in the air. RTE Radio One seems to be leading the charge at the moment with rising numbers of women presenting programmes during the peak hours of 8am to 8pm.

TV3 also have managed to attain a relatively good gender balance in their news and current affairs output – most noticeably on Vincent Browne's programme. Something I think they don't get enough credit for.

During the first session of the Conference TV3's Political Editor, Ursula Halligan, made the point about women on TV being constantly made feel that they have to fit a specific body type... young, pretty and very slim. An image, she said, that was largely constructed by men but which was bought into by women. Aine Lawlor referenced the excellent documentary by Kirsty Wark, 'Blurred Lines' and the amount of violent sexual threats that can be made against some women in media, something that another panellist, journalist Una Mulally knows all about.

It struck me that both issues have a connection to each other. Because TV companies seem to be so reluctant to put older women or women who don't fit the specific 'TV type' on air, broadcasters are actually feeding this view that all women must be attractive and specifically sexually attractive regardless of their qualifications or ability. The most obvious example of this is that of Mary Beard, the respected academic in the UK, who received horrendous online abuse regarding appearance after a series she made, was aired on the BBC.

Perhaps when we have more balance in the physicality of the women we see on our screens – across body types, age etc we will see a decrease in the amount of abuse someone like Mary Beard receives. It is much easier to bully the minority.

In broader terms we need to ensure as more and more women make it to air that we don't follow the men and have airwaves that are almost entirely populated by middle class voices.

Just as the women at that very first 'Women On Air' seminar were accepting of the interloper housewife from the suburbs, as more and more of us make it to air we must ensure that we are bringing diversity with us.

Congratulations to Caroline Erskine – chairperson of Women On Air, Margaret E Ward and Helen McCormack the originators of the movement and all the current committee for a wonderful conference. Onwards and upwards sisters.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-60046277449281922022014-05-09T11:39:00.000+01:002014-05-09T11:39:56.045+01:00PARENTS - WAKEY WAKEY
Last night I managed to catch the last quarter of an excellent documentary on BBC2 presented by Kirsty Wark called – 'Blurred Lines – A New Battle of the Sexes?' In the programme Ms Wark asked whether the internet was now a place of hostility towards women as demonstrated by the level of abuse, much of it of a sexual nature, Professor Mary Beard received online after her appearance on Question Time.

What really resonated with me however was when Ms Wark spoke to three very young women about whether a level of sexual aggression from boys was a reality. One of the young women described being at a recent party where many of the boys were groping and grabbing the girls as they wished. Kirsty asked how the girls reacted, wondering did they not have the confidence to tell the boys to stop. The young women replied that no, she didn't think that many of the girls even realised that they were entitled to say stop or no. She seemed to think that may of her peers just thought that was part of being a girl. Kristy then asked the young women what their greatest fear was in this regard. They all agreed that being sexually assaulted and it being filmed and photographed for social media was their greatest fear.

I found this chilling and depressing but also it made me very angry.

Earlier yesterday I had been trying to find out, for a friend (yes seriously) about an Australian 'act' called The Janoskians who are coming to Dublin and Belfast at the end of the summer.

The Janoskians are, according to Ticketmaster "... a group of five best friends who brew 'social disturbance' and capture it on camera and churn out infectious and incisive punked-out pop anthems". <o:p></o:p>

I asked my own two teenage daughters about them and was told that yeah they are 'hilarious', that they do 'prank videos' on YouTube and that they can't sing but that's not a problem as they are auto tuned anyway! Is Simon Cowell responsible for the death of music and talent? But I digress... as usual.<o:p></o:p>

It is very difficult to find any independent reviews of their shows online. Google searches seem to churn up lots of PR related guff. But there was one review which was posted on an Australian parenting and lifestyle website called Mamamia.com.au. The reviewer Tara Lee, described as a mother from Sydney, begins by saying that she was expecting "gross pranks, silly skits, stunts where they harm each other or themselves." She was also expecting a level of cursing and swearing. But says she "found it a little shocking when they came out and said to their audience "girls, shut the f*ck up!" — and warned parents there would be quite a lot of swearing and said that if we didn't like it we could get our kid and "f*ck off".<o:p></o:p>

So far so very teenage I guess. And we all know that teenagers love rebellion and shocking the rest of us. But what didn't shock as much as repulse me, was how they treated their fans – mostly young girls (they are a good looking group). <o:p></o:p>

Tara goes on to say.. "at Q&A time, when asked about what their favourite body part was, one boy said that while he liked a good tit, he preferred arse and commented on how many great arses there were at the meet and greet. Then it progressed to how the Sydney girls were sexy bitches, corrected by another on-stage star to "sexy SLUTS". This prompted cheers from the audience, who seemed to think this was a good thing".

You can read the full review here and if you have a few hours to spare you can go on to read the comments where the fans respond to Ms Lee. Suffice to say that their loyalty is unwavering just like One Directioners and Beliebers before that. The clever use of social media by The Janoskians is a huge part of keeping their fans 'loyal'. "They love us and care for us... they tweet us all the time saying that" the fans say. Oh dear.

But seriously when did it become OK for a bunch of guys call young girls 'sluts' and reduce them to lumps of meat commenting on the tits and ass quality of the audience. But for me the far more worrying element of all this is that the girls think this is quite OK and even love it.

One hundred years after the women's movement began to make serious strides we have produced a generation of well educated girls who think that this is OK? Or do they? Or are they like the trio that Kirsty Wark spoke to who are in fear of someday being abused sexually and the event being posted online? Either way it's an appalling vista.

Parents have to step up to the plate and we have to up our game. I have written before about the power of online porn and the fact that saying "I have parental block on my computers at home" will protect your children. It won't. We just can no longer protect our children from sexually explicit content online. In order to combat its messages we must change our conversations around sex. No longer is the conversation merely about the birds and bees and joy of sex and committed relationships but also must now include talk about oral sex, threesomes and the like. I am not for one second saying this is an easy conversation to have with a 13 or 14 year old. It's not but we have to 'woman' up and do it.

In ten days or so that other paragon of all that's wrong with pop culture, Miley Cyrus rides into town for her concert in the O2. According to a review of her London shows by another mother, Annabel Cole (Irish Daily Mail 9thMay) who took her 14 year old daughter, along with Miley's crotch, ass and tongue being a huge part of her show, she also encourages our children to "make out with each other and use lots of tongue". She apparently also extolled the virtue of smoking saying "I smoked for three years and I loved it but weed is much better than smoking.... this show is nearly over and I will be stoned very shortly." There were children as young as nine in the audience.

So parents it's time we wised up. Its take our heads out of the sand. Miley Cyrus has long ago left her Hannah Montana days behind her and The Janoskians may not be quite as hilarious as the PR says.

But more importantly it is time for us to ensure our daughters have the courage to understand that they do not have to be sexually available all the time. We must help them find their voices to shout NO. And we must make absolutely sure that our boys understand exactly what consent is.

And we must do this against the barrage of pop culture with icons way cooler than we ever were spreading messages that are exactly the opposite.
Barbara Scullyhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-7525848878710274126.post-8633364424014773152014-04-23T13:40:00.000+01:002014-04-23T13:40:33.269+01:00THE MAGIC OF A GOOD TEACHER
So the teachers of Ireland are having their annual get-togethers as I write this and there seem to be two things that are engaging the nation as a result....well those who are on Twitter anyway.

Firstly there is the idea that Ruairi Quinn floated about 'defeminising' primary teaching by introducing a requirement for candidates to have honours maths. Leaving the 'defeminising' element aside because that would be an entire column in itself, the idea that potential teachers of four to 12 year olds should have honours maths to me shows a worrying lack of what it is that makes a good teacher of very young children. Some individuals more cynical than I assumed that this daft idea was merely to deflect the debate away from the Junior Cert mess and other issues.

Twitter was also consumed with lecturing the badly behaved teachers who showed no respect for their Minister by their heckling, use of a megaphone and slow clapping. If I saw one I saw ten tweets to the effect that teachers should be providing better example to their students by behaving better. Mmmmm... I have a sneaking regard for rebels and strongly believe in the need to make our voices heard when we passionately disagree with something that is being implemented. I still believe that most teachers have the welfare of our children at heart so I can understand their anger.

Let us not underestimate the power of teachers on our lives and on the lives of our children. On receiving her Fellowship Award at the last BAFTAs earlier in the year Dame Helen Mirren talked about teachers. "My journey to this place, right here and right now, began with a great teacher", she said. She went on to reference Alice Welding who taught her the power of literature and who alone encouraged her to become an actor. Ms Mirren asked her audience how many of them remembered a great teacher who had "opened the gate that led to the path that led you here"? She asked for a show of hands. "That's a lot of teachers", she remarked.

We are lucky if we have had one great teacher in our lives. We are truly blessed to have had two or more. And these great teachers may or may not have been actual teachers. My first great teacher was a teacher. Her name was Mrs Nellie McGloughlin and she taught my class in Oliver Plunkett National School in Monkstown. When I was 7, I thought Mrs McGloughlin was old. She had grey hair and wore comfortable shoes which she kicked off one at a time as she warmed her foot on the heating pipe in the classroom on chilly days. She was one of those brilliant teachers who didn't force us to learn but rather opened our young minds to endless possibilities, endless stories, and endless interesting facts.

Mrs McGloughlin also seamlessly shifted from Irish to English and back again, right throughout the day. She read us poetry – in both languages – not so that we could understand the concepts being articulated but rather so that we could develop an appreciation of the beauty of language. She encouraged us in 'creative writing'. She even gave us advice on how to find a good partner in life.

We were incredibly lucky in that Mrs McGloughlin taught us from second to sixth class. When myself and my classmates made the transition to the local convent secondary school our oral Irish marked us out as the girls from Oliver Plunkett.

My second teacher came into my life shortly after I had turned 30 years of age. I was not in a happy place for lots of reasons, the lack of a job I liked being one of them. I was 'temping' at The Alzheimer Society of Ireland and the Chairman was an amazing man called Michael Coote. Michael had just turned 80 years of age but was one of the most creative, positive, energetic people I have ever met. But more than all that, just as Helen Mirren said, he saw something in me and he gave me an opportunity.

He offered me the newly created role of PRO for the fledgling charity. For the next couple of years he mentored and guided me. He taught me so much; about selling, about motivating volunteers, about ensuring your message was heard. He was simply inspirational. Just like a good teacher should be.

I hope the cynics are right about Minister Quinn's motives for introducing the mad idea of primary teachers needing Honours Maths. Because the teaching of young children is as much about magic and endless possibility as it is about reading and writing and adding. If teachers should require an honour in anything it should be in magic and perhaps another in creativity. And thankfully some are born with just that.

Barbara Scullyhttp://email@example.com