I am Singing Your Song Mum

IT’S JOHN LEWIS AD DAY!!

It’s here!  The ad has been released online with the first TV screening expected at 9.15pm tonight.

I LOVE the John Lewis ads.  I get excited and all of my teaching plans are paused every year.  I shall spend the day watching it and analysing it with my students and being happy happy happy in my job; its cinematography, its soundtrack, its narrative structure, its messages…

And this year’s homage to Elton John ticks all of these boxes.

It’s not as immediately Christmassy as I would have liked.  It begins as what seems like simply a tribute to the legend that is Elton John, but as the flashback structure becomes clear and we can begin to anticipate what’s coming, the emotions kick in.

And at the end, it is indeed Christmassy.  In fact, there is so much Christmas and so many feels concentrated into the last 20 seconds, that you’ll feel like you’ve been hit by a Christmas Pudding.

If the face on the little Elton doesn’t melt you into a thousand pieces as he bounces into the Living Room of his home on a Christmas Morning in the 1950s, then I don’t know what will.  He is every child.  He is all of us, full of joy and hope and anticipation.

And the message?

“Some gifts are more than just a gift”

Well, it’s more than that.

This is not just a hat tip to Elton John.

Actually, this advert is NOT about Elton John; it’s a tribute to his Mother. TO ALL mothers.  (And to his Grandmother!)

How?

Because it is his Mother who sees his potential, who encourages his talent, who feeds his ability.  It is his mother who watches with tears of pride in her eyes.  It is his mother to whom he looks when his nerves fail him as a young boy at a school recital, who has given him all that he needed to succeed in life… And succeed he did (and does).

And it is no doubt his Mother that he is thinking of in that final scene, where his smile is sad, but full of memory.

In fact, when we see the clip of a young Elton in a recording studio, the music becomes almost inaudible as he sings “My gift is my song and my song’s for you.”  His Mother gave him the gift of music.  He returns the gift to her by dedicating his song to her.

Because, without his Mother, where would he be?

Now, I’m off to show my babbies this beautiful piece of Christmas magic and to make sure they all recognise the message in this ad… and that they all go home this evening and thank their parents for giving them all of the gifts that they have…

And then, I’m going to price Pianos for my little superstars…

I Am Santa Claus The Movie Mum

FUNDRAISER ALERT! #RUSHETORAISE

It’s that time of year again!

And to celebrate the official start of the Mammy and Daddy’s favourite time of year, we are running our #RushetoRaise fundraiser for another year.

This year, we are delighted to announce that the 2018 #RushetoRaise will be

“SANTA CLAUS, THE MOVIE”.

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All proceeds will go to The Jack & Jill Foundation and to The Victoria Thompson Scholarship, both of which are orchestral in providing much needed pediatric palliative care and support, all over Ireland.

Last year, we had a wonderful afternoon at our screening of The Polar Express and were delighted to be able to donate over €2000 to two very special charities.

 Rushe Fitness is once again sponsoring the event and we are being kindly supported by Century Complex, Letterkenny.

 

Very limited tickets are still available and can be ordered by messaging me on my Facebook Page.  Tickets will be held for payment and collection on Sunday (11th Nov) between 12pm and 1.30pm at our Gym in Letterkenny.  Any tickets not collected, will be sold to those on the waiting list.

Let’s ring in the festive season with this beautiful classic.

 

I am Stuck in our Phones Mum

As a writer and blogger, I am often guilty of depending on my phone a little too much. But I am very, very aware of how much time I can spend flicking through social media and I am well able to leave the phone down.

Like everyone, I sometimes find myself constantly checking it; needing to know if people had responded or reacted or replied to me, especially as my summer holidays set in and I was able to be more active on my social media platforms. Unlike during my working day, I had access to my phone all day, every day. But then I realised that it was taking up more minutes of the day than I cared to admit. And those are minutes that I really have more important things to be doing.

So a few months ago, I made the simple, but absolutely life-changing decision, to switch off notifications on my phone. Such a basic, quick solution to an ugly problem. Rather than constantly feeling obliged to click on the little red number beside the Facebook or Insta icon, I am more in control of when I do (and more importantly, when I don’t) pick it up.

Is it working? I think so. It’s certainly made me think twice about my own relationship with my phone and I’m enjoying the mental freedom of no longer being a puppet to the beeping puppeteer. But let me tell you. I only THOUGHT I had a problem.

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In the past few months, I’ve been in two massive cities; firstly London, then New York. (I’m not usually that jetsetting and exciting, but it’s been a busy one!) And one thing that I noticed in each, was how ridiculously stuck to screens people are.

Now I’m not just talking about people ignoring each other in bars and restaurants for virtual conversations on their screen. I’m not just talking about the woman who is so busy flicking through videos about drawing eyebrows, and fake smiles and backsides on Instagram, that she doesn’t see the person who might be interested in hers across the table.

I’m not just talking about the man who says “in a minute” eleven times before actually looking up to answer his friend, or partner, or child. Because while all of these things are sadly a daily occurrence in most cities, what I couldn’t get my head around was the fact that in the larger cities, people now are taking their phone to a new level.

Because now, it is unsafe to walk on a street.

There is a new generation, or species perhaps, who genuinely do not realise that when they are walking, they must LOOK AHEAD. Or at least look at the ground in front of them.

They possibly think they are living inside the virtual reality of whatever computer game they like to play, and that if people walk into them, they will simply dissipate and dissolve and disappear like the avatars in their games do.

They don’t GET that if you don’t look ahead of you, you can not see where you are going and therefore, you will bump into people.

Perhaps these are a new-age type who have actually evolved to deal with the banal act of walking in the real world. Perhaps I am mistaken and they are ACTUALLY looking at a clever app on their device which is warning them to step left, or manoeuvre right or to stop at the road.

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Maybe it is I who is so sad and deluded. Or maybe, just maybe, I am simply old and these young’uns have actually evolved to such heights that they can now see from the top of their heads and therefore don’t HAVE to look up, like we oldies. Never mind our mothers who had eyes in the back of their heads, these guys have them on the top.

Am I being sarcastic. (God yes. And if you are genuinely unsure, perhaps YOU need some more human interaction!) But in all seriousness, the number of times I got shouldered or bumped into or actually pummelled while trying to walk through the already crazy gauntlet of the modern city streets, was unbelievable.

And I’m not referring exclusively to young people here, although the majority were possibly of the snowflake generation, possibly genuinely believing that other people quite simply must MOVE out of their way. Heaven forbid that they would be distracted from the importance of their screen.

Many of these crowners (for they looked like what a midwife sees at a birth, approaching hair or bald head first), were older. And yet, age or gender aside, they were not one bit concerned about the other, real people, who they were ploughing through.

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I remember sitting in London with my brother a few years ago, aghast at the way people were dependent on their phones; uber, food orders, directions everything… And then our own wee country caught up. And that is both fine and terrifying, because judging by the bigger cities right now, we have a zombie society emerging. And what starts in these cities, eventually reaches us. It’s bad enough that we have to deal with dummies driving while looking at their phones. (Seriously dude, no one looks at their crotch and smiles…)

But judging by what I saw this summer, we shall soon be walking through throngs of headbutters, hunched over like question marks.

We all need our phones. We all use them more than we even realise. They are part of our culture. But when they are simply extensions of our hands, into which we place more importance than human interaction and actual physical awareness, then we have a problem. And when the only communication and words that we pay attention to are being fed by a wire into our ears, we run the risk of becoming deaf to reality.

Imagine if we all looked up? Imagine what things we would see…

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I am Stuck in the Dress Mum

Online shopping.

Is there anything more joyous and wonderful than the words “Order confirmed”…or “Your order is on its way”… or “Order delivery notice” popping up on your little screen?

No.

Tis heavenly.

And then there is the arrival of the anticipated order, all squishy-bagged and bar-coded and heavy with joy. The heavier the better, for weight often denotes quality does it not?  And the careful but excited ripping open of the package;  excited that the garment within will be life changing and beautiful, and yet careful, “just in case” it has to go back; for there is nothing more irritating than trying to reassemble a plastic envelope which has been ripped off too energetically, in the throes of passion.

You take the little see-through bag from inside the plastic envelope of joy, knowing in the back of your mind that you should feel guilty about the superfluous packaging and making a note to yourself to email a protest or plant a tree or something.  The guilt is short-lived however, when you get the lovely, shiny, new and wonderful garment in your hand.

You strip off, anticipating the transformation that is about to happen.  Surely this piece of clothing is about to change your life.  Surely, in approximately 30 seconds, you too shall look like the model did on the website.  Surely, it will be fablis.

And sometimes it is…

Sometimes, it zips up and hugs you in all the huggy places, and makes you look sublime, even without a glossy blowdry and layers of muckup. And on those occasions, you feel euphoric, if only for  few moments, while you gather up the plastic envelopes of joy and the stickered return slips and you squash them into the bin, smug and happy…before peeling off the beautiful thing and returning to real life…

But sometimes, what has been placed into the plastic envelope of joy, is a prank.  It has been packaged up by some Hell-Fiend-Wench, who smiles to her fanged self as she uses her magic glue gun to invisibly stick the packages.  She smiles as she knows that there is no physical human shape or form that this garment could possibly fit. She smiles as she knows that the item may well have been sewn together by goblins in a cave in the back arse of Narnia, such is the disastrous quality of it.  She smiles as she sticks your address label on, knowing well that it shall be returned at haste, complete with your dignity and self-confidence, in even MORE plastic envelopes.  And she laughs, this little Hellfiend Wench.   For she is the killer of the the joy of the online purchasing.

And yet sometimes, it is not the fault of the Hell-fiend wench.  Sometimes it is simply a case that the garment does not fit.  You try to get into it.

It either

a) slides on without you having to even look for the zip, reminding you once again of the extent of fried-eggedness on your chest and eventually looking like a glorified potato sack into which you could fit two of you…

or more than likely,

b) you get stuck.

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You get your hands and shoulders into it.  You search ferociously for the teeny tiny zip, made only for the fingers of a 4 year old, which you are certain MUST not be fully down.  It is indeed fully down… and now stressing under the strain of your flailing arms.

You hold your breath because somehow, holding your breath makes the clothing stretch, doesn’t it?  Then you remember that no actually, you silly mare, holding your breath does not make the material stretch.  Then, when you try to breathe, you find yourself unable to.  You hop around the room on one leg, even though it is your arms that are stuck, not your legs, you Twat.  And then you fall onto the bed, feeling certain that this is how it must feel to die with a python wrapped around your neck.

The obvious thing to do is to take it off again…and yet, the garment is now stuck. Stuck under one armpit and over one shoulder and your body below is white and compressed and dimpled, while from the tits up, you are puce and puffing.  Your circulation is ceasing and you look like a thumb which has a tight hair bauble tied around it.

You say a magic spell consisting of expletives you didn’t even know that you knew and you pray simultaneously that the godforsaken python dress does not rip as you wrestle your way out of it.  It is finally off and you both lay on the bedroom floor, crumpled and defeated…

Then you reach for the python-garment and fling it into the plastic envelope of not-joy, still inside-out obviously, because if it is going to leave you in a state, you are certainly not affording it the dignity of being folded neatly.  Let the Hellfiend Wench in packaging in the warehouse deal with it.  You’re done.

And then you lift the piece of stickerdy paper which asks you your reason for return.  Unfortunately there is no “The dress tried to fucking kill me” or “The dress turned my size 12 arse into a walrus” or “This is obviously for AGE 12 rather than size 12 you muppets” options, and so you do what any self respecting Lady would do…

You lift that pen and you read the list…and then you tick that box that says “Garment too big” and sellotape up the plastic-bag of joy, before the lies come slithering out of it.

Feels good though, doesn’t it?

#mammywin

#feckyouhellfiendwench

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