Mountains of perspective

It's the smell of urine in the laneway in town, it stays in your nostrils and sticks to your shoes. The pungent aroma follows you for the day, the bad smell you can't shake off. It ruins your morning, even when the smell is gone, your mind tricks you into thinking it is still there.

The introspection starts, do I smell? Can my colleagues smell it? Do they think it is me? Fortunately, my day takes hold, the noxious fumes fade and the torment dissipates.

I wonder is homelessness like the smell of piss that never fades?

They wake up with it, it follows them through their day, it torments the mind. Do they wonder is everyone looking at them and thinking... "Homeless"?

"They" seems so harsh, so distant, we're worlds apart. Hang on, we share the same streets, the same biology and often the same conversations.

I once worked in the type of sandwich shop the Celtic Tiger was reared on. Brioche, focaccia, ciabatta... You know the sort. At the end of each day the wastage was massive. We could take what we wanted and dump what we didn't. One evening I took a few sandwiches for the homeless fella on the way home.

"From where? No thanks!" A man of principles when it came to the kind of sandwich he would eat. Beggars can be choosers it would seem... and why the hell not?!

More recently, at lunchtime, my mood drove me to a slightly, slimmed down version of the "Fat Philly Meal Deal". The crisps and coke didn't make it but the chicken fillet roll and potato wedges did. I strolled shamefully back to work, taking a right turn down a lane I knew was a favourite of the homeless.

"Can you spare some change bud?", I was asked. I mumbled and shuffled on, mimicking the scene played out a million times a day. The weight of guilt and potato wedges consumed me and I turned on my heels. I thrust the wedges in his direction and rather embarrassingly said "You need these more than I do."

In McDonalds one evening. Two young ladies, in the throes of a Thursay night out, chatted aimlessly with another young man. "Where are you off to tonight?", the ladies were asked. "We're not sure, probably to a few bars. How about yourself?" they lofted back with interest. "Back to my dog and the street, I'm homeless."

What can we do for the beggar who chooses, the man whose chips are down, the fella who doesn't look homeless and the thousands for whom the sky is their only roof?

Next weekend, myself and 30 colleagues will attempt to climb the highest peak in each of the four provinces of Ireland, in one weekend. Our goal is to raise at least €15,000 for The Simon communities across Ireland.

Needless to say, I bought my hiking boots yesterday and am relying on my five a side football, tag and occasional gym experiences to get me through this one. This is going to be tough.

We start on Friday with Carrauntoohil, followed by Mweelrea and Slieve Donard on Saturday and the ascent of Lugnaquilla on Sunday.

I don't know what we are doing but I do know there will be aches and pains, wind and rain, cuts and blisters.

We're doing this because we want to make a difference. Hopefully this feat will inspire you to dig deep and give what you can to help solve a problem that impacts way too many people.

Any donation is big and will have a real impact. Click here to help.

We all have our mountains to climb, thankfully our four are physical.

Mind what you say

It's a Wednesday night in a Dublin suburb, cold and wet. We're on a 5 a side football field. A once competitive game has erupted into a minor kerfuffle. An opposition player is heading for the sin bin and himself and his team mates aren't happy about it.

A muster of peacocks has appeared and filled out their jerseys for a spot of posturing.

Most of the team's vitriol is directed at the referee, the goalkeeper's face is red with rage. From the other end of the field, he roars insult after insult at the whistleblower. His team mates join in, they surround the referee... I'm standing with my back to the goalkeeper enjoying the spectacle.

All of a sudden... who says "all of a sudden", outside of Leaving Cert Irish?

Anyway, as quick as the wind, the goalkeeper decides that one of our players should also leave the pitch for an as yet undisclosed indiscretion. Our combustible protagonist pierces the air with this rather compelling argument, "He needs to go too ref, he has to go, he has to go too for, for eh... for AGRRO!"

We've all been there, when the anticaption of something great doesn't quite live up to the eventual outcome. That feeling, when you know the spotlight is on you and you fail to deliver.

This brought a smile to my face. So I turned around, more to check that this lad was smiling, as much as anything. He wasn't.

Our eyes met, the world stood still for a moment, rain drops suspended in mid air, awaiting the outcome of this most unromantic of midweek encounters. I felt awkward staring into this man's soul, so I grinned.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU BALDY, FAT C$NT", he exclaimed. My grin disappeared and I rather meekly whispered in reply, "I didn't open my mouth".

He wasn't about to get bogged down in semantics and I wasn't about to explain the concept.

I eventually regained my composure... Water off a duck's fat I suppose! No more foie gras for me.

It's been a rough couple of weeks now that I think about it.

I was at the supermarket checkout, there were two close together, it was the line for baskets. I was greated by a lovely lady, more senior than I. She dilligently scanned my purchases, bagged them and, as the final item fell into the bag, she sat back and waved her hands in front of her face in an effort to cool herself down.

She looked me dead in the eye, she didn't but it sounds better, and said "It's very hot in here!" Quick as a flash I smiled and said "Sorry, that's probably because of me!"

Quicker than a flash, her colleague on the next till, of similar vintage, said "No it's not you, there's really bad air circulation in here."

All of a sudden I felt it get a lot hotter!