I was born in the 1950’s. 1952 to  be exact. God, I’m so old and too young to appreciate The King until I turned twelve. A visit to the  Clonard picture house on the Falls Road to see Blue Hawaii and my life was set. But that’s another story for another time and a good one too.

When I hit eleven I was diagnosed as being short sighted. Mr McDonald, bottom of the Whiterock was my optician, lovely man. He took great care of me, regular checkups and helped me pick the right frames to suit my face. But I had to wear a pair of those awful National Health glasses. Remember them!  Blue for boys and pink for girls. Branded for life. Specky Four Eyes. Judy in Disguise ( with glasses.) That was me.

When I turned thirteen my parents relented and bought me a pair of stylish cat’s eye frames, black with little diamonds on  the corners. But the problem was there were no thin lenses at that time. They were like blooming milk bottle tops. I hadn’t a hope in hell of bagging a member of the opposite sex. No boy would ever look at me or care about me. I was a specky pariah. Someone not worth “lumbering” as it was called then. I did manage to get a few boyfriends but I think it was only because my friend, Kathleen, was very pretty. Long blond hair and eyes of blue.

“With your long blond hair and eyes of blue” David Bowie.

Even at parties, if I was invited, no one wanted the Spin the Bottle to spin towards me. My self confidence hit an all time low and a sort of depression set in. I mean there were no contact lenses at that time and no boy ever attempted to check out my personality. It was silly really. I was the same girl with or without glasses. And truthfully without them I didn’t look half bad. I didn’t try going glassesless  (don’t think that’s a word.) I would have ended up in The Royal a lot of times a year. Broken bones, walking into traffic, not seeing the wall that was right in front of me. I have to say though, I still don’t like contact lens. Tried them, got one stuck in my eye, blind panic until it dropped out. Glasses for me  for sure. Anyway they’re all the rage now. Different colours, shapes and sizes, some of them a bit out there. My daughter asked me once if I would get her glasses, 20 20 vision she had although she also asked me, when she was about six this:

“Mummy, where you at the last supper?”

“No” says I.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“ Well Katherine, I was washing my hair at the time.”

Flip, sometimes kids make you feel so old..

So, as I was saying no boys cared for me or even looked my way.

But then fate leant a sympathetic hand one summer weekend in 1968. A few of my friends and I had rented a cottage in Omeath. Invited a few boys down, as you do. Our parents thought we were staying in each  others’ houses. Well, we all did it ,didn’t we. Didn’t we? Sixteen going on seventeen. A fun loving, confusing difficult age. For the first time I learned what is was like to have someone care for me. Didn’t happen immediately when the boys arrived. I was just there for the craic and adventure. Seamus was his name. My friend Anne told me she fancied him, as we walking up the Omeath hill back to the cottage. We had been out for coffee. Yeah right! We’d just left the pub, feeling a bit jolly when Anne opened her heart.

“Away and walk beside him then,” I advised. But it didn’t turn out that way. For some unknown reason he took to me. Wow! I was on cloud nine! Took me on his motorbike, although he did cause me to fall inelegantly off the back of it. We lay in a field canoodling (nothing else mind you.) I was a good girl then until I found out what came after canoodling. Oh Yeah! I’ll have that! And more of that and maybe a little bit more of that! We spent a lot of time together until my beau got a little tipsy, climbed on the roof, promptly fell off taking half the guttering with him. We were thrown out, told to go back to The Black North were we belonged. What was that all about?

  By the time the damage was discovered the boys had gone home (funny that, doncha think.) We had to borrow a tent and spend the rest of our holiday on the beach, miserable and scramped. Cold beans, sneaking into the hotel to get washed. Nightmare! I missed my beau. I meant to hang on to this one if it killed me and then I did something stupid which could have killed me. I decide to hitchhike home alone. Stupid me. But I was in love at sixteen and missed him.

A lorry driver picked me up on the road, nice man, until he turned round and asked me:

“Are you a virgin?.” 

And to tell you the truth I wasn’t really sure what he meant. Birds and the Bees! My Mum threw a book at me which St Dominic’s had sent out. “The Facts of Life.” I was none the wiser because no explanations had come from her. So from my memory I don’t think I answered the man. Just stared at him.

“I have a daughter your age,” he said and kept driving.

The days seemed so long before I met Seamus again. Not being a confident Mati Hari, I imagined his thoughts had turned to another, much prettier girl. But No! We became an item ( as the Americans say) and after a year or so he sat me up on a  wall on the Andersonstown Road and said those magic words:

“ Are you lumbering?”

No! No! I’m joking.

“Will you marry me?”

And he even asked permission of my Da. Da was heading to bed and a nervous lad called him back. After he stumbled through the words my Da just said:

“Aye! Right!” and proceeded to bed. 

Then of course came the ring, from a wee jewellers  in the town. Not a bit romantic, mind you. My new fiancé was reading the Hotspur at the counter while I chose the ring. Kept reminding me to leave some money for a celebration drink. Like really! Anyway off we went to the Glen Owen to meet my parents. Now by this stage I was eighteen. But Seamus was warned no drink for me. He had to secretly throw a vodka into my pure orange. I’d just gotten engaged and planned to marry but wasn’t allowed to drink.   We married on the 6^th Feb., three days after my birthday. Six months later we flew out of Belfast enroute to a new life in far off Australia. Now that story is for another t