What's a Hobbit?

I have been fortunate to have had not one, but two older brothers to read and filter through the sci-fi fantasy section of bookshops for thirteen years 'til I came along. As I've grown, my treasury of books has been added to and enhanced by numerous hand-me-downs and borrowed reads. One of my earliest book-related memories is opening an oblong parcel one birthday and seeing a golden brown book cover with the words: The Hobbit written on it. I looked up at my brother and asked in all innocence, "What's a Hobbit?"... I devoured every last spellbinding word and conjured up the strange worlds first envisioned by Mr. Tolkien. A couple of Christmases later, The Lord of the Rings followed with equally gratifying results.

I also remember scanning through the shelves of books belonging to my siblings to find something to write a school book-report on when I was nine or ten. Everything was brightly coloured and had pretty pictures on the fronts but when I looked inside I was repeatedly disappointed by how small the writing was and how boring the story lines seemed to be. I continued to pick through the stacks for maybe an hour or two, which, when you're that age, seems like forever. The second I picked up Terry Pratchett's Small Gods, I knew I was holding something special. The writing was just the right size, the cover was colourful without being garish and best of all, on reading the first paragraph I laughed no less than three times. I was hooked.

When I was recommended The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy I jumped in head first with no hesitation or questions and haven't been the same since. I felt like I had been waiting for Douglas Adams all my life and everything I had hitherto read was just the introduction. No words, at least on this planet, could describe how I feel about Mr. Adams and his works of utter incredulity. I have devoted much of my spare time to trying to understand what sate of mind he was in when the idea was first conceived and how it came to evolve into such a variety of stories. Hitchhiker's was first spawned as a radio series back when my brothers were hidng behind the sofa from the Daleks of Dr. Who fame. It was remodeled and reworked into the book shortly after, and later still, much to Adams disbelief, more books followed in the series. Stage shows, musicals, computer games, a movie and public recitations have been performed with equally disastrous and ecstatic reviews. All of these creations begin in the same place and time, all star the same characters and all split and follow completely different tangents shortly after the word is demolished in the second or third chapter. I thank my lucky stars, and some of my unlucky ones too, that i have been privy to the knowledge that "Belgium" is actually a most offensive curse word and that [SPOILER ALERT] 42 is the answer to life, the universe and everything.

For Christmas this year I have asked for books, unlike my usual demands for DVDs, shoes or electronics, and I can't wait to see what assails my mind next. Perhaps Brother Clause will find me another piece of literary art that I may cherish and draw from as much as I have previously. I patiently wait for the next installment in my repertoire of cult-collected classics.

Basil

Our current cat-in-residence is a black and white moggie who goes by the name of Basil, or Baz for short. His sleek coat is mostly jet-black with a gorgeous snowy white shirt fluffing up under his proud chin. His paws, usually slightly grubby after an evening out on the tear, are returned to their pristine state with ten minutes frantic washing before he settles down, exhausted, in a heap on his blanket. He wears this fine furry tuxedo with the air of a fellow always prepared to eat a decent meal were I to be so good as to put it in front of him.

Like most of our cats he arrived uninvited, after the demise of our previous tenant. We watched his antics as he scaled the ten-foot wall out back, clinging to the trunk of the beech trees, hiking his way up until he reached a bird’s nest to steal their eggs. Someone had dumped him (probably in a plastic bag ‘cause whenever he heard the rustle of a bin bag, he’d vanish, scared to death of the noise) and he ended up thin and scrawny, scavenging for food, and desperate to come and live with us. "You can feed him, but he’s definitely not coming inside" were my immortal words to my soft-hearted daughters who could never resist an appealing meow. About three days later, Basil moved in to rule the roost for the rest of his natural life. He’s been with us for about six years and he’s hale and hearty, his legs strong, his eyes clear and his heart completely devoted to all of us. When my two sons ring home from abroad it’s, "How’s Basil doing?" I’ve even been known to swivel the camera so they can view him on Skype to assure them that the feline Master of our Universe is being properly looked after. When daughter Jessica drops in to visit she swoops him up in her arms, kissing him, telling him he’s lovely, then spends time brushing his fur furiously as he swoons, splayed out beside her, senseless with pleasure, purrrrrrrrring his head off.

Of the many cats that wandered through my life I remember one in particular who loved to sleep close to me at night. Marmalade must have been near her time and around three in the morning she began the business of producing her litter. I woke up to the strangest huffing sounds emanating from the warm bundle on my stomach, quickly decided that this was something I did not want to witness, slid out of bed and went down to the harbour to look at the boats until it was light. Back in my room sat puss, proud as any young mother, five tiny bodies curled up beside her, no evidence of what had happened in the dead of night.

When Hugh Leonard left Manchester to return to live in Ireland there was the small matter of a beloved cat, Honey, who couldn’t possibly be left behind, nor could she be put in quarantine, so instead, this moggie was smuggled across the Irish Sea, doped up to the eyeballs, turning her owners into possible criminals prepared to do time if absolutely necessary. Rover and Other Cats is about all the cats that dominated Hugh Leonard’s household: Rover the star of the show; Honey the Siamese; Priscilla who turned out to be a he; Tinkle, the amorous feline; Dubh the beloved; The Pooka, Panache (the first cat to have his obituary in a broadsheet) and last but not least, P.S.

Once you’ve read Rover’s introduction into the family you’ll just have to get the book to find out what happened next: "He was an orange blob no bigger than Paule’s hand when he came to us in a shoebox that could have held six of him. A friend of a friend of ours urgently wanted a home for a male kitten; when we protested that he was not yet weaned, we were given to understand that his alternative home would be a weighted sack thrown over the sea wall. And so that shoe box changed hands."

This memoir will make you laugh, cry, and delight in this author’s obvious love of cats.

Recipe for a Good Night Out

4 x thirty somethings
2 x tents
1 x campfire
1 x hamper of home cooked nosh
0 x alcohol

Take four young adults
Bus them down to Brittas Bay, County Wicklow
Erect two tents
Send them all for a swim
Light a campfire
Feed them

Now what?

We’re all used to instant entertainment so it’s hard to switch off and be still. Eoin could probably have fallen asleep early; Sam could have sat in an impossible yoga position and sucked her toes; Jessica could have read her book; but Angelo was bored. “Now what? There’s nothing to do!”

Jessica reached into her backpack, pulled out The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart and started reading aloud. She read an entire chapter as a gentle breeze flapped against the open tents. Her audience lay down, listening to this adult bed time story. She read until the sky darkened and turned to dusk, until her three listeners had almost fallen asleep, while they relived their own private memories of being read to as a child.