A Bungalow

Imagine you are standing on a deserted street, facing a house. Take a moment to create that house in your mind's eye. What do you see? Two storeys or many stories? Do you like what you see? Would you slate it, or are you afraid of heights? The house I am looking at is one storey, this story.

The family hated attention, stares were a killer, so a bungalow made sense. To deter prying eyes they planted row upon row of interlocking trees knowing that wood suffice. It was a case of safety in numbers, and here multiples of trees.

Their back garden was like a high security prism, guarded on all sides by leprechauns at home among the rainbows. It might sound ostentatious but they come at a refraction of the recommended retail price. Also, in the event of an urgent evacuation, they can pick up the prism, safe in the knowledge it travels light.

With the perimeter secure, they relax with ease. The mother was a maths teacher with an obsession for collecting living room furniture. There were times tables would, almost miraculously, multiply at the expense of space. Or so she thought, but you can’t get rid of space, that would annoy the aliens.

Dinner was always a challenge. When the chips were down they ate on the floor and watched the Titanic. There were other days where they ate like King’s or Tayto or Hunky Dory, and like oh my God the children loved it. The two buoys sat in the corner of the kitchen, it was maritime themed and the mother always threatened to have them shipped out.

The eldest daughter was a runner. You know the kind, tongue always visible and easily tied in knots. Her adoptive parents took her in because she seemed right, in fact she was left. Outside a clothes collection bin they found her. But, if the shoe fits.

The son shone brightly through the clouds, a champion sky diver who was so assured and dependable. The family could set their watches by the son, rising and falling like the light of their lives.

Their father, his art in leaven, hallowed be his name in the bread community. With the city’s number one bakery bearing his name, he has designs on going pan pacific. Since his teenage years, the aroma of flour has scent him into a world where creativity is bread. Unfortunately, he's allergic to flour but kneads must.

I've been standing, staring, for quite a while now. They don't like that, time for me to make like Thunderbirds and go.

It's a wonderful world

Monday morning in Malawi and the third of four weeks of the Chifundo Summer School is about to start. Eight volunteers, from schools across Ireland and England, await the arrival of some of the poorest and, at the same time, knowledge hungry children the world has to offer.

At 8.40am, 50 boys and girls clamber excitedly from their bus as it comes to a halt in the Chifundo Foundation campus. One young boy sprints clear of the others and races round the corner to where he knows an old friend is waiting. His feet barely touch the ground as he spots his favourite Irishman and launches himself into his arms. In a country littered with heart breaking scenes, this little boy’s heart is about to explode with joy. A bond built over the previous two summers has been rekindled.

His beaming smile, command of English and fearless approach to life dwarf his stunted growth and harrowing personal circumstances. Standing three foot tall, and ten years old, in front of class mates far more intimidating, he demands silence

before laying down the law, “I am very disappointed to hear children speaking Chichewa (the local language) in the Chifundo campus...”

He believes in the power of Chifundo. The power of education and English to change his future, one where the odds are stacked heavily against him.

While the individual stories may vary, a common theme prevails... Their staunch refusal to be overcome by their circumstances.

Another young fellow embodies this spirit as much as anyone. From the moment he bounds through the gates he seeks out interaction with his teachers. “Sir... Sir... look” is the initial extent of his English, grabbing our attention to show off his latest version of the press up, magic trick or skipping rope exercise.

“Sir, sir, borrow me spectacles”, his English improves as his confidence grows. He takes

my sunglasses and places them on his grinning face. His diminutive, barrel chested frame radiates happiness. A few days later, “Sir, can I have your sunglasses, please?”, we’re making progress.


One Saturday we visited his house. He stood proudly outside with his mother and siblings. Almost every member of the family, including mum, wore an item of

clothing donated to Chifundo. Their house has one room and is no bigger than a garden shed. Our eyes are drawn to the gaping hole where a roof should be. They can’t afford one and wake up sodden during the unforgiving rainy season.

Malawi is the 7th poorest country in the world. Chifundo works with their team in Malawi to identify the poorest children in the Zomba region and places them in private education. A simple idea that is changing futures.

“Sir, how are volcanoes formed?” asks one bright young man destined for university on completion of his secondary schooling. One of our geography teachers responds with an answer that covers moving plates, high pressure, extreme heat, molten lava and a lot more besides.

Some of the children are writing letters to pen pals in Irish and English schools, the same student explains his situation in flawless, written English. “I am writing to you to tell you about my life in Malawi. My mother left me when I was two, my father left me on the 20th of August 2014, when I was 8. I live with my aunt who does her best but life is not easy.” He has even mastered the understatement.

In Chifundo’s absence, the potential these children possess would lie undiscovered, uncultivated and ultimately wasted. They would exist in a primary school system that encourages class sizes of 80 pupils, early dropout is guaranteed. They would then be sent to work, the girls with the shadow of prostitution looming large.

The children of Chifundo dream big, with a private school education their futures are brighter. There’s a doctor, a dentist, plenty of nurses, some teachers and a number of bank managers.

One day they will buy a house and take their families from poverty and start a new cycle supporting the next generation of Malawians.

Who knows, their future may even include a trip to Ireland to thank you in person for playing a part in changing their lives.

Until that day, you’ll have to make do with me passing on their truly heartfelt thanks.

They are doing their utmost to make you proud.

Find out more at chifundo.org

James: Missing you

We'd just finished cycling around Ireland and James had a plan. Take the pictures, collect our medals, two bottles, a slice of pizza and straight back to mine to shower. Class. One tiny setback, the great man had forgotten to pack a pair of boxers. Thankfully I'm not shy when it comes to sharing my underwear but I was slightly taken aback when James was less than impressed with the pair offered up. I'd picked them especially, definitely in my top 5. He wore them under duress.
Too baggy, too loose, too long... too blue as well probably, but I had given up entertaining his rant as we wandered gleefully back to our gang of proud cyclists. We happily chipped away at each other for the night. Him wondering if my grandad had picked them and me reminding him his fashion sense may have taken a hit but his sensitive cheeks were in a better place.

James was always correct, literally, he was always right. And so, I knew I needed new boxers. After that night I promised myself I'd phase out my tattered loin cloths in favour of something more fashion forward. You couldn't go wrong with the old pair though, they couldn't go on backwards because of the almightly draft you'd experience on your posterior. Nor inside out, as the button would wander inside and closing the fly was a nightmare.

Two years down the line and I am now the proud owner of all sorts of Calvin Klein, Lee Cooper and one or two Penney's numbers. Everytime I look down and realise I have had my boxers on inside out or back to front, all day, I think of James and smile. I needed to move on, but boy am I struggling.

I loved seeing James let loose. There was no better sight, most memorably on a football field. He was a human metronome, he kept us ticking with his 100% pass completion rate. Myself and Ferdia would stand on the sideline and compare him to Xavi and Iniesta, nothing went astray. He tracked back, he created space, he gave the ball to others in need of glory and covered their mistakes when their plans went array. He was a pleasure to play with.

Watching James score a goal was a thing of beauty, but the beauty wasn't in the goal itself. It came slightly later. He'd take up an ideal position, call for the ball until his wish was granted, with one touch he'd kill it perfectly before striking neatly into the back of the net. One for the purists.

What happens next, will stay with me. He'd wheel away and bashfully accept the praise while setting himself for kick off. Just as everyone had returned their concentration to the game he'd fire out the most perfect fist pump. Fist starting low at the hip and driving upwards towards his chest. Once I knew it existed I always looked out for it and I'm so happy I did.

"That's the job Lundy!"

I was upset for months after he stopped playing our Wednesday game in favour of running. Partially because Ferdia doesn't pass as much as James would but mostly because I loved sharing in his joy.

He seemed to think I had a burning desire to run. I'd wander through the office and he'd catch my eye, wink and beckon me towards him with his head. Like a puppy I'd wander over trying not to smile, knowing he had something up his sleeve.

He'd mention a marathon and half a dozen half marathons he was doing in preparation. "C'mon Philly, sign up. I'll pick you up in the morning, we'll head down, run the race, we'll get some lunch in (insert researched lunch destination) and we'll have a great chat!" I'd tell him I hadn't done any training and he'd tell me it'd be grand... and it was.
I'd hop into the car, he'd pretend to be annoyed because I was two minutes late, keep up the facade for a while before he'd burst into laughter, cracking himself up.

"Anyway, what do you want to listen to? I have Bruce Springsteen (insert album title) or Bruce Springsteen (insert album title)." I'd ask if the radio was working, he'd say no, I'd say I was happy to sit in silence and he'd put on Bruce. A couple of minutes of Bruce and banter later I would ask, "Is this the album with Ring of Fire or American Pie? Think they are the only Bruce songs I know."

At Clontarf and Bohermeen I made him wait but the hug at the finish line made the pain of

the last hour and fifty minutes fade away.

I used to love giving James a hug. Hugging another male colleague in the office in front of all his team was not his idea of a comfortable situation so I made sure I did it as often as possible. "On your feet!" or "Please be upstanding!" were my favourite orders before grabbing him and holding him way too long. It was especially rewarding in front of one of his new starters.

On Sunday, I took James's entry and ran the Wicklow Gaol Half Marathon. I've cycled through Wicklow plenty of times but for some reason I never thought the half marathon would be full of hills. When he listed the half marathons he wanted me to do he would always start with the flat ones. He mentioned the Wicklow one and I asked if it had hills, he said one or two and I politely declined to take part... "But you'll do the Clontarf one Philly, yeah?"

Two things stand out from Sunday... Puff Daddy and crossing the finish line.

Let's start at the end. The race finishes with a 2km downhill before you turn a corner and you're faced with a 300m uphill climb. I love to sprint the end of a race, just empty the tank and deal with the consequences later. I was doing fine for the first 150m but I was fading fast, the tank was nearing empty.

"Come on Lundy, give me something here!" I roared. Suddenly, it was as if his hand was on my back driving me forward and I flew up the hill. I reached the brow with a smile on my face and crossed the line, instantly reaching around to feel for his hand still on my back. If our traditional finish line hug is replaced with his presence driving me on, it'll have to do. 

Obviously there was only gonna be one playlist that would get me through 21km of Wicklow countryside... All Out 90's! With 13km out of the way Billie Piper, Natalie Imbruglia, B*Witched and many other "artists" had given me their all but I was beginning to fade.

Then I heard it, Puff Daddy and Faith Evans, "Missing You".

"Memories give me the strength I need to proceed, strength I need to believe"

Our chat before I decided to go back to Hays.

Dropping over a white shirt before a wedding because I'd been moaning about having to buy one.

Calling over to mine for a cup of tea that I let you make because I was too hungover to get off the couch.

Our breakfasts in Hobart's avoiding the brunch crowd.

Listening to you tell me about your family... Mam, Dad, Jacqueline, Clare, Edward, Jason, the boys, Samir, Paul, Danielle... I can hear you now "Well as I said to ..."
Wearing matching braces and dickie bow for the Christmas party.

Getting up at 7.30 on a Sunday morning to make breakfast for myself and Pippa for the Aussie Open final because you had Eurosport.

That random day drinking with myself, yourself and Darren.

Being Cookie Monsters with Mike.

Memories, that's the job Lundy!

Dreams, they can't come true...surely!

They say you should live out your dreams... I'm terrified of mine. When my head hits the pillow I have no idea where I will end up, literally sometimes.

Jimmy Carr once said, "There is only one thing more boring than listening to someone talk about their dreams, and that is listening to someone talk about their children."

If the prospect of boredom has not deterred you, join me on a weird and wonderful trip featuring cocaine, duvets, bicycles and much more besides.

To set the scene, I come from a family of "active sleepers". One of us has nearly choked on an imaginary stylus and also tried his hand at taking the curtains from their hinges, because he thought he was taking down the sails on his boat.

While sharing a bedroom with my brother we once woke up chatting away to each other, simultaneously deep in sleep and chat.

The feeling of relief that comes with waking from a particularly dastardly dream is reward for the moments lost trying to comprehend what I have just done. Recently I was wandering the streets of Dublin selling cocaine without a blind bit of interest in being discreet. I was robbed of my "snow" and woke up terrified of what my supplier would do to me.

More recently I came face to face with a US Army operative wielding an automatic weapon. He had the upper hand as I hid behind a banister, in my old apartment, and bravely avoided a hail of bullets. My survival skills, or the sound of my alarm, allowed me to come out unscathed.

That very same apartment was the stage for some memorable night time activity... no giggling.

After a charity cycle, spanning 6 days and over 700km, I took to my bed with slumber in mind. A recent spate of bike robberies in Dublin meant I kept mine beside my bed. I fell asleep and hours later I woke up, lying on my back, nothing unusual there... except I was now holding my bike by the frame above my chest.

For some unknown reason I had decided to chest press my bike while fast asleep.

"Get the bike out of your room!" I hear you cry. If I had done that, this wouldn't have happened.

The sound of my chain going around and around woke me one Sunday morning. I ignored it for a while until I could take it no longer. Eventually, I moved to the bottom of the bed and stuck my hands into the chain but the sound continued. As the aural pandemonium increased I pulled the chain off the bike. That didn't stop the assault on my eardrums.

I came to my senses when my housemate arrived to check on the commotion. There I am at the bottom of the bed covered in black chain oil. "You alright, is that your alarm making all that noise?"

One summer night, I awoke with my head and duvet hanging out the window of that very same bedroom. I was clinging to my duvet as it dangled three storeys above street level, the fresh night air woke me with a start. I thought the duvet was full of water and it made sense to empty it out the window.

Have you ever shared a room with a colleague on a trip abroad, gone to sleep in different beds and woken up on top of them?

I think I was trying to evade something on one side of my bed so I scarpered to the other. I didn't consider how close our beds were as I made my escape and next thing I knew half my body was between both beds... which probably would have been fine, if the other half of my body wasn't draped across his.

The next morning, "Should we talk about last night?", he asked. It's an awkward conversation to have with anyone, least of all a Director in the company you work for.

I'm not really sure what to do with my dreams. Some have very useful outcomes, I'm now very good friends with my Director, but how do I analyse the outcomes of my other night time narratives?

Should I sleep in a room devoid of distracting objects, complete with locked windows and doors? Do I contact as many coke dealers as possible to warn them of the perils of lacksadasical dealing? Would the Don appreciate a tweet advising him of a rogue soldier intent on, at best, destroying a staircase?

Part of me would love to wake from a sleep where my mind has completely switched off but I also have an overriding sense of intrigue to find out where I will end up next.

That intrigue will no doubt win out, which will put me in a fairly healthy position if the Corrs ever come true on their promise to start buying dreams, "Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?"