Ballycorus again!

M

Being in self-imposed isolation has its challenges the biggest of which is to get back to writing. Like many writers of course I drum up all sorts of things to do rather than actual write. So jumping in with both feet I propose to write a very short piece about the WC we had in Ballycorus.It was an historic piece of engineering. And I can’t think why I never thought of photographing the contraption.

This contraption was know as an earth closet.when things progressed the cistern was filled with wAter. and was then known as a water closet or WC.

It worked as follows: as yiu sat on it the seat lowered allowing a handful of earth to fall on to the metal shovel-like part so that when having deposited your gift and you had stood up again the Earth was allowed to fall onto and cover the pile of excrement – there being no other way to put it. My father had the job of filling the cistern m-

like container with earth.

How could I have done that? The telephone book was a vital part of this feat of hydro engineering for when you beeded a sheet of loo paper you simply tore a page out of the telephone book.

When I wrire about all this in The Irish Times some family members complained:”Mary, you left out about the telephone book.”

How could I have done that for the phone book – an old one – was a . Vital part of the whole experience for when you needed a sheet of loo paper you simply tore out a page of the phone book. Bingo!

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My Home is Your Home: A Journey Round Syria

Mary Russell

My new book, My Home is Your Home: A Journey Round Syria. Please scroll down to read more about the book.

My Home is Your Home

“Beautifully written, mixing historical observations with first-hand experience, Russell’s book will be a welcome introduction for all visitors to Syria.”

Dr. Eugene Rogan, Middle East Centre, University of Oxford

My Home is Your Home

A Journey Round Syria

Syria is a country few people know much about – apart from the political upheavals of the last few months. My Home is Your Home will change all that. Equipped with notebook, biro, bicycle and, occasionally, a bus ticket, Mary Russell travelled not only to places such as Aleppo, Homs and Hama but also to some of the more remote parts of eastern Syria taking, unexpectedly, an overnight taxi ride across the desert from Damascus to Baghdad. The result is an enthralling and quite unique account…

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I love short stories

My task for 2020 is to write a short story a month. To encourage myself j am reading two collections of short stories by William Trevor.

The stories I am writing don’t have to be prize winners but they do have to be finished not cast aside in despair or exasperation. Finishing them is the challenge. Too many distractions lurk in the corners of my mind….

Writers I like:Carver and of course Frank O Connor.

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Halloween ( the eve of All Hallows) is a prechristian celebration of the underworld and remained so until the dastardly Christians took it over and linked it to their church. Hang in there ye Celtic pagans!

The above is a turnip which in Ireland was the traditional vegetable to carve to make a lamp.

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Oh no. Not that again.

17.5 million people in Britain voted to stay in the EU. Just saying.

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The Power of Parliament

The Ashmolean Museum in Oxford has an info leaflet suitable, it says, for ages 7  upwards. The leaflet touches, coincidentally, on events in Westminster though in a different century.  Here is a slightly shortened extract: “King Charles 1 had fallen out with Parliament because he believed that God had given him the divine right to rule his way…but Parliament  disagreed…The King was tried, found guilty of treason and executed.”

Just saying.

Veg

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maryrussellwriter.wordpress.com

Here are a couple of anecdotes both told to me and both giving an insight into a relationship.Names have been changed.

1. Jill usually went to bed before John got back from the pub.That was the routine and one which they both accepted.It worked well except for one part of it. Jill always knew when John was back from the pub because she’d hear the downstairs door slam. This was followed by his footsteps as he climbed the stairs.At this point her body started to go rigid, waiting for the moment when he would come into the bedroom and started to get undressed as he always did. By this time she was stiff with anticipation.And why? Because every night- without fail – he would take off his trousers and throw them across the end of the bed where her feet were.

“This is the one thing that drives me mad,” she said and I knew it would have driven me mad too.Every night week in week out…door slams, footsteps on the stairs, trousers off and then wham! They’re thrown across her feet. So awful was this inevitable action that I never thought to ask why on Earth she didn’t ask John not to do it.

In any case , they separated soon afterwards.

2 there’s a funeral in the village church and we all sing what were the words of the favourite hymn of the departed- a dear old soul who had been our neighbour.The final lines was :”You in your small corner and me in mine.”

Afterwards we stiff outside chatting.It was a cold afternoon in February and Judy, now retired from running the village post office, pulled her fur coat round her. “I left Jim in bed with the paper but I told him you wait, the funeral will be over by three and then I’m coming right back so you keep that bed warm.”

I was surprised to find myself slightly shocked that a middle-aged couple should climb into their warm bed at three in the afternoon. But of course it wasn’t really shock: it was envy.

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