Category archives: Family Album
There really wasn’t that much to do. Back in damp-priest-riddled, early-80s Ireland. Especially if you were a wife and mother.
Choices were stark and choices and simple. And really limited. You could sit munching a communion wafer (or sucking an Oatfield sweetie) from mid-afternoon on a Friday, waiting, desperately, for the misanthropic Uncle Gaybo’s Late Late to start, or you could curl up on a gold couch and sob. Beside a white telephone. Like Isabella Rossellini.
My mother always chose the latter option. Always. I played Subbuteo.