We are the People - Kunal Gandhi

Written by Paul Scannell

Arriving from India to Dublin’s Mountjoy Square on a vague promise of lodgings, Kunal Gandhi admitted  his new surroundings were initially less than reassuring. ‘The cab driver scared the shit out of me’.  In search of opportunity, he had emigrated to Ireland in 2015 with an unnecessarily heavy bag  and his life savings of €1000. Recalling attempted muggings he laughs, ‘My body is huge. Don’t  touch the Teletubby’. Indeed, the building that became his first Irish home might have burst at the  seams. ‘There were four in each room on a very very big bed.’  

‘I was depressed in those first weeks. it was shitty cold’. With his savings gone on rent and student  fees, he was forced to ring his father in India to ask for help. ‘You chose to go. If you need  anything, don’t call me.’ ‘My mother was sobbing’. His Irish dreams were quickly slipping away. An  older compatriot he met at an Indian festival soon after gave advice that shifted his focus. ‘Stay  away from any helping community. Grow your own space. You have to be local to be local’. 

Finding work in an Indian restaurant in Swords, Kunal’s initial role was preparing meat and chopping onions. ‘In my life, I thought  I would never touch beef. It’s against my religion’. Throughout those difficult months his last call  home hung heavy in his head. Driven by the inescapable motivation of a father’s expectation, he  was pushed to succeed. ‘Either you fail or you learn’. 

In spite of the fact Indian immigrants consistently rate in the top global percentiles for educational  achievement and earning capacity, outdated perceptions persist. Dismissing these antiquated  stereotypes with humour Kunal joked ‘people still see us as the land of snake charmers’.  Defensiveness seems entirely absent from his character. ‘When someone undermines you, you  laugh at yourself, or you laugh at them. A billion Indians can’t produce 11 good footballers but we  give you doctors’. Confidently pointing out that Ireland’s richest man is Indian, it appears he aims  to emulate his countryman’s successes.  

Turning adversity to one’s advantage seems to underpin Kunal’s self-belief. ‘Only a person that can  think bad of you can tell you how good or bad you are’. With a grounded wisdom in his approach to  prejudice, he perceives the initial coldness of locals as a forgivable fear of difference. ‘In the first  month nobody would talk to me’. Whilst never ignoring the challenge of being the ‘other’, he simply  refused to dwell on it. ‘You have to be successful in your own eyes.’ This nuanced philosophy  affords him an inspiring confidence in the underlying decency of others. ‘People open up when  you’re good to them’.  

Offered a role in the finance department of Hays Recruitment, Kunal undertook his next challenge with

zeal. Quickly recognising his commitment and hard work, the firm cut his probationary period short. He achieved a permanent position as a payroll specialist in 2019. With his studies  completed, his family travelled to Dublin for his graduation ceremony. ‘My father was whistling in  the auditorium. I had tears rolling out of my eyes. That’s my father and he’s rooting for me’.  

The values of Integrity and diligence rate highly in Kunal’s estimations. Being seen as a good  example for the next person is an honour worth more than money. ‘Indians are proud people’. He  embodies the heart of the immigrant story; fighting for a rung and hauling yourself upward. Of 64  immigrants in his class, only nine remain in Ireland. With his new foundations growing ever more  stable, he gets to offer a hand up the ladder for others, altruistically finding jobs and giving support. He has allowed adversity to hone his strength. ‘People used to think I wasn’t good enough’. 

With a contagious optimistic smile he adds, ‘I like when people challenge me’.

Listen to Kunal explain his story on the We Are The People podcast.

Our Miscarriage

 

We never met you, but you rocked our world. You taught us so much without ever setting foot in our lives. We worried about you, we built a life for you, we loved you. We changed our lives for you, stopped eating cheese and drinking alcohol for you. Our minds wandered with you.

Pippa held her hand over the little window that would reveal your presence. I was sure she already knew because when she pulled her hand away you were there, two little lines, changing our lives. We hugged and kissed, sat down, and had lemonade.

Nothing changed immediately, I thought about COVID and work and whether Winston was ok. But little by little I thought of you, calling you Corona for fun, working from home with you sleeping behind me and Winston licking your face. I didn’t try, it just happened.

You made us so happy, so relaxed and content. Happy to do nothing, just change our behaviors and wait for you to arrive. I thought of badly teaching you languages, of showing you worms in our garden and cheering on Klopp.

You’d cry and make noise, but I’d never complain. We’d live in some kind of harmony, where I still played football twice a week and Pippa would swim and do yoga whenever she wanted. We’d head off in the car on little trips with young Winston beside you keeping you safe. You’d fall and get dirty, roll around in the mud. I’d laugh and play relaxed even though I’d worry inside.

We needn’t have worried because you never arrived.

With bleeding and scans the awful news was confirmed. Outside the hospital I waited for Pippa to come out. We hugged, and we cried, surrounded by mothers smoking outside. Back home on the couch, with no one around, we cried, and we cried, Winston hopped up to give us all the comfort he had.

We told our family and I told some friends. The more people we told the more sadness unfolded, as one in four said they’d been through exactly the same. So many people, I never knew had suffered the pain.

You’re a part of us now, woven into our lives. The lessons you’ve taught will stay with me for life.

Life can be cruel, unpredictable and sad. Lidl’s Big Baby Sale was the week we got the news. Not their fault, not ours, just an unfortunate reality. We sought distraction in Netflix, The Fall had us gripped, then Sally Ann had a miscarriage. Life can be cruel.

You taught me to cherish what we have, to not get caught up in the future and what hasn’t happened. I was waiting for a friend the other day and instead of losing myself in my phone I spent the time watching the trees and listening to the birds. I won’t pretend it was amazing but I wasn’t wishing away that time.

There was so much about pregnancy and miscarriages that I didn’t know because I never asked. How fragile you are, how luck plays its part, how there’s nobody to blame, sometimes chromosomes don’t blend. You taught me to ask questions because knowledge will help, to ask friends if they’re ok because sometimes they’re not.

You taught me to dream and look to the future, because in spite of the above there’s plenty of good. Remember the worms, the football to watch, the laughs to be shared and a life to be lived.

We spent last weekend planting bulbs to flower in the spring. There’s a special collection in a pot dedicated to you. I’ll sit and watch the flowers grow, the bees coming and going and the world going by knowing that you’ve played your part making our world a better place.

The Most Impressive Thing I Have Seen

It was a Monday morning and Rachel sat opposite me. We covered the extent of our rather mundane weekends quickly and just as I was about to turn my attention to our Monday emails, she stood bolt upright, groaning as she did so.

I was about to begin a lesson in bravery, that would last for years to come.

Initially I thought she had been stung by a bee but as she toppled over, I knew something wasn’t right. She left my line of vision and came to a rest on the floor on the other side of my desk. I sat motionless, in stark contrast to Rachel, who shook violently on the floor, an electric current seemingly coursing through her body.

Debs sprinted down the office, cleared everything from the immediate area and ushered everyone away. I did as I was told, with no idea what had happened.

Ah… epilepsy.

The same epilepsy that Rachel had told me about. What it does to her, how we should react, who to call and that everything would be ok. Interestingly, sitting motionless wasn’t one of the things she had encouraged me to do.

Rachel went home and a couple of days later came back to work, happy out.

I had no idea what to say, thankfully Rachel had been through this before and was well versed on on the reactions of people around her.

“Once it starts, I cannot stop it. Sometimes I think it is coming but most of the time it just starts and that is it.”, she explained.

What happens once it starts, I wondered. “It is like being in a gym session for 24 hours, where you work every muscle in your body. During a seizure, every one of them contracts. I am stiff as a board afterwards, great for my abs though!”

And after…? “Imagine your computer, you’re working away and then suddenly there’s a power cut. When you turn it back on it will take a minute or two to come back to itself. It’s the same with me, my brain takes a while to recalibrate and for my memory to return.”

“Catch me!” … her response to what I should do if it happens again.

Challenge accepted.

Over the years working together, I lost count of the times I caught her. I’d hear the initial grunt, sprint around the table, break her fall and lay her out on the floor. Then I’d wait, firstly for the seizure to pass and then for Rachel to regain an understanding of what was happening.

“You’re OK, Rach. You’re in the office. It’s fine, It’s me, Philip.” I’d begin as calmly as possible.
“Where? Who are you?” would be the bewildered reply.

Another couple of minutes would pass and I’d try again.

“It’s OK Rach, you’re in the office. It’s me, Philip.”
“I know who you are!” The accompanying eye roll would always catch me. At least I knew she was back.
“You’ve had a seizure.”
“A WHAT!?” Back to square one, not quite ready for that bit.

Rachel had told me she could be angry or rude when she comes around. I’m glad she told me.

I’d try again. “It’s OK Rach, you’re in the office. You’ve had a seizure… but everything is ok.”
“I KNOW! Where is my jumper?” It was never warm enough for Rachel.
“I have it under your head”
“WHY WOULD YOU PUT IT THERE?!”

There was a memorable time where Rachel hit her head during a seizure and a bump developed. One of our colleagues arrived with a bag of frozen peas (no idea what they were doing in an office) and proceeded to place them on her head.

“WHAT ARE YOU PUTTING PEAS ON MY HEAD FOR?”
“You’ve bumped your head Rachel.”
“SO, WHAT ARE PEAS GONNA DO?”

An unwelcome peas offering.

Gradually Rachel’s memory would return, and she’d be faced with the harsh reality that she was lying on the office floor surrounded by colleagues trying to look busy and not at her.

We’d phone Paul, her recently recollected boyfriend, and he’d come to bring Rachel home. Then the slow walk through the office would begin and Rachel would take a day or two off work.

“Hey! How are ya?” was often the first question Rachel would ask on her return.
Me?! You’re the one that has had to recover from a seizure and return to work, not knowing when it will strike again.

I’ve seen you have a seizure while mid-sentence on a conference call, with colleagues you’ve never met before. I’ve seen you collapse under the chair of a colleague, who was too terrified not to follow the “continue as usual, Phil knows what to do” guidance. I’ve seen you snap at senior colleagues as you return from your post seizure state, and you’re wondering how I am?

That’s brave. You walk tall, back into the office, knowing what people are like. Some will become closer, while others more distant. But you remain yourself, positive, optimistic and honest.

It’s impressive and in a lot of ways, the most impressive thing I have seen.

Why I Murdered My Wife

“Sonic”, that’s what they used to call me at school. Not on account of my speed, non-existent, or my tendency to curl into a ball, that was once, but because I was obsessed with the hedgehog of the same name.

My youth was filled with Sonic the Hedgehog and SEGA. There was nothing those Japanese gods could create that I wouldn’t love. In my pre-teen years, Sonic adorned my duvet, the posters on my walls, my lunch box and even the clothes I wore. It wasn’t long before my haircut became as spikey as my attitude.

In secondary school, my collection games decorated by SEGA and Sonic grew along with my obsession. Etched into my rucksack, and by extension my memory, were all important dates. None that I would be quizzed on in the Leaving Cert but ones important to me.

“Sonic the Hedgehog (16 bit) – 1991 – Mega Drive
Sonic the Hedgehog (8 bit) – 1991 – Game Gear…”

It went on as I became a billboard for SEGA and their most successful franchise.

I left school and my childhood home, leaving behind my posters but bringing with me my Game Gear, Mega Drive and Sonic. Sonic did not come up in conversation with my peers and outwardly my interest dwindled, but internally it burned brighter than ever.

Friday night sessions would roll over into Mondays and Tuesdays, as I quickly burned through any sick leave allowance. Bleary-eyed, I would return to work dying to relay my latest conquest on “Sonic the Hedgehog 4” but knowing deaf ears were all it would invite.

My head was filled with Sonic and my body was begging to share the passion. Three Sonic tattoos and enough Sonic boxer shorts to last me two weeks, revealed my true colours to anyone lucky enough to experience my partially disrobed self.

Speaking of luck, I didn’t have much success chasing Tails, but one evening that changed and I was 1UP. We married and while she knew Sonic was close to my heart, about 3 inches, she showed more interest in me than my hero… and that was fine.

Game over arrived one Christmas. We had been together for a number of years and for some reason this year the usual monotony of gift giving had been replaced by some excitement on her part. I shared that excitement, presuming I was in for a treat. Try treachery.

I ripped apart the wrapping paper to reveal a SUPER NINTENDO CLASSIC MINI?!

SEGA may have sold out to Nintendo, but I wasn’t about to.

My final words before her game ended? “SEGA bye Tails!”

My Most Stupid Moment

I sat alone, surrounded by heroes. Stig Bjornebye, Robbie Fowler, Patrik Berger… action photos plastered on my bedroom wall. The light above my bed went out.

Being the resourceful kid I was, I headed downstairs in search of a replacement.

On my return to my teenage sanctum I set about replacing the bulb. I took the old one out and tried to place the new one in.

It wouldn’t fit.

Not to be deterred I twisted it, turned it, stared at the bulb and peered into the light fixture. I couldn’t figure it out.

One thing stuck in my mind, “There must be something causing an obstruction in the light fixture.”

There had to be, sure I had tried everything else.

Without a second thought, I jammed my two fingers into where the light bulb should go.

Immediately, I was sent soaring across the room. Lights out, for me and the house.

A couple of minutes later, light and life having returned, I lay on my bed assessing my idiocy and my Dad appeared at the door.

“You ok?”, he asked.

“Yep, all good.” I lied.

Obviously, this was a pretty stupid moment, is it my most stupid though? Only time will tell!

Edward - The boy to bring peace

With everything that happens in the world, you’d be forgiven for thinking we live in an evil race to the bottom. Sickness, death, tragedy, misfortune… it surrounds us, with the potential to consume us.

Bad news sells and corrupts our view of the world.

There is plenty of cruelty in the world but come with me on a trip that starts with an innocuous encounter and ends with one of my favourite moments ever.

I was cycling home from work when a car ahead of me slowed to let me pass before turning left in my wake. I waved my appreciation and smiled at their simple yet caring move.

My mind then wandered back to Sicily in the summer of 2008. I was looking after children, mainly French and Italians. Most weeks I was charged with the 4-5-year olds. It was an endless cycle of feeding, cleaning and trying to understand what could possibly upset a French child so much that hyperventilating became an all too common occurrence? My awful French accent probably didn’t help.

This routine was finally broken as a new week began and respite came in the form of a transfer to work with the 8-12-year olds.

“Can you look after my son this week?” asked a rather anxious English mother.

“If he is between the ages of 8 and 12, I don’t see why not.” I replied

“Your boss won’t take him, she said no.”

“Eh, well… why not?” My confusion almost matching her level of distress.

“Edward has autism, but he is fine. If anyone could bring about world peace he will. He loves to hug; he just wants to make friends. But he can’t talk. He will be fine, I promise. His sister will be there too, she knows what to do…” She said, almost without a breath.

I was stunned. I opened my mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sound of barking, loud and full of life.

I looked around to see who had brought their dog on holidays and was met, not by a canine but, by a fair-haired boy, with cherub cheeks and a pristine smile.

Nothing out of the ordinary here, except he was holding a toy dinosaur in each hand and he was making them bark like nothing I had ever heard... from a human!

“He will be fine, I promise.” His mother’s desperation dripping from every word. Edward was oblivious as children scuttled to “safety”.

“Non!” my boss was adamant, “We cannot. It will be too difficult”

“Please, he will be no trouble and his sister will be there too if anything happens.” His mother argued.

This went back and forth until amazingly I was given the casting vote.

“Yes, let’s take him. His sister will be there sure…”

“Thank you!” The relief on the mother's face was all too clear as her features softened.

“OK, but if anything happens, it is your fault.” My boss was clear, I was on my own!

No matter the country, the continent or situation, kids will be kids… searching comfort and scared of the unknown. Edward joined the group with a smile on his face and dinosaurs in hand but everywhere he went the other kids moved away and giggled behind his back.

Every activity we took on it was the same, Edward playing on his own because the other kids didn’t understand… Then we went to play football.

The resort had a glass structure similar in size to a squash court with small goals at either end. It was perfect for two a side. Myself and 14 kids headed off to play… now someone had to play on Edward’s team.

We settled on teams of two, the first to score two goals won the match and the winner stayed on.

The action kicked off with four on the inside battling it out for the glory of their peers, who were outside banging the glass and cheering every touch. Edward was no different, loving life, his life.

When Edward’s turn on court came, he chased around, worked up a sweat and ultimately left on the losing team. The kids on the outside did little to hide their laughter. It was time to have a little chat.

The next time Edward was on court and out of earshot, I gathered the other boys around and did my best to explain Edward’s outlook on the world… in French.

I jumbled together something akin to “Edward is a kid like you guys. He loves to make friends and have fun. Unfortunately, the world isn’t as easy for Edward so he needs us to look out for him. I need you to help him.” The giggles were gone and what looked like genuine concern seemed to have taken its place.

I continued, “Let’s make things better for Edward. The next time his team are playing I want you to allow him to win. You can score the first goal against him if you want but please just let his team have one victory.” The togetherness with which they laughed at him had now been replaced with scheming an unlikely victory for him.

As my impromptu speech came to an end, Edward’s team left the court defeated once again, not realising my pidgin French may have been about to create something very special.

The games continued until it was time for Edward’s team to take to the field once more. It was different from the beginning. The boys outside banged the glass and shouted his name. His face lit up; he was still beaming from ear to ear as a shot flew past him to put his side 1-0 down.

“Never get too high with the highs or too low with the lows”, they say. Edward epitomised this and kept smiling as the crowd chanted his name.

Within minutes Edward’s team were back on level terms as his teammate took out his frustration on the ball and it nestled in the corner of the net. Edward went wild, chasing after the young lad to celebrate. His face was bright red, his teeth glowing as he laughed and smiled at their unlikely turn of events.

The game was on a knife edge. If Edward’s team conceded the cruelty in the world would be there for all to see… if he scored, we could continue to believe in the good in people.

Chances came and went. Edward, forever distracted by his newfound fame, was having a hard time concentrating on the task at hand and we were in danger of having to call the game a draw. There was no drop of the shoulder required to go past Edward, he was enchanted by the sound of his name and gravitated towards his fans.

Then it happened, truth be told I can’t remember how but the ball ended up in the back of the opposition net and Edward’s boot was the last to touch it. He had scored a goal, won his team the game and created scenes never to be repeated in a glass box.

His teammate ran to him and hugged him as he jumped in the air, the boys outside banged on the glass and shouted his name. He left the court and was mobbed by all the kids… “bien joué!”, “Quel but!”, the boys had done good.

Edward was on cloud nine as he savoured his moment. The boys milked it for all it was worth, reveling in their planning and execution.

As the week went by the kids remembered Edward, saying hello in the morning, including him in their games and running after him when he wandered off.

And I remember it 11 years later as an example of the power of concentrating on the positives. It doesn’t make the pain of illness, death and loss go away but if it brings a smile to your face for a moment, and makes you think of your own happy memories, then I'll take it.

Booking the trend

Her sense of adventure drove her Ford, Focus was not her strong point. It often drove her to Distraction, the packed arcade she hated. Realising her errant journey, she slapped her face hard. "Girl, that Mustang!", muttered a passerby. 

It snapped her back to reality and off she went. Leaving civilisation behind, she headed for a place long forgotten but with many stories. She abandoned her car and walked the rest of the way. 

Moving between the reads her eyes scanned the fallen trees, beaten to a pulp. They danced across the tall tails huddled in this most ordered of worlds. Then she saw it, a young buck, the one she came to see. She reached out and grabbed its spine, it lay in her hands as she gazed upon her trophy.

She brought it to be checked, out in the open, away from the shelter of the columns of scribes. It was her first time and a bead of sweat crashed to the floor. She instantly regretted wearing her most prised possession. She’d torn her grandmother’s sweat infused pearl necklace from her dying grasp and worn it as her own.

The pearls scuttled along the floor, past the sections marked “Wild” and “Winter” and came to a halt, atop a fallen sign, “Wisdom”. 

She collected her pearls off "Wisdom" and her aquatic marine mammal. She walked with real porpoise towards the bespectacled gentleman to make his mark.

“ISBN expecting you”, his strong Italian accent caught her by surprise.

She stood in silence, not sure how to respond.

“Check you out!”, his gaze dropping below her face.

She stood in silence, not sure how to respond.

“Your book, Ma’am.”

She placed it on the desk and within seconds his scan was complete.

She reached for her new Tennant, Emma smiled at the man. He held on a little too long and whispered “If it’s late, it’s a fine”.

"GRAZIE!" 

“What a nice man, a little odd” she thought, “wait, ‘it’s a fine’?”

Pixie & Pals

“GET AWAY FROM THE ROSES!”, the gruff voice startled Pixie so she fled for cover among the trees. Terrified, she scampered up the bark to the safety of branches. Catching her breath, she peered down as Mr. Jones shouted, “You’re a nuisance squirrel, a right nuisance!”.

Pixie smiled to herself and wondered if Mr. Jones was always this angry. Did he wake up and think his milk was too milky, his water too watery and squirrels too squirrely? He needs to wake up and smell the roses? That’s all Pixie wanted to do, she loved starting her day among the beautiful colours and delightful smells.

Once Mr. Jones had become distracted with the boys and girls playing too close to the daffodils, Pixie skipped down the tree trunk and off across the green grass to find her friends. The grass was still wet with the morning dew, so she picked up her pace. She sprinted towards the pond and slid on her bum along the wet grass.

“WHEEEEEEE!” she shouted.

“PIXIE!”, three yellow ducklings cheered as they saw their favourite squirrel arrive on the path beside the pond.

“Hi guys!”, shouted Pixie as the ducklings splashed and crashed towards her, eager to be the first to hop onto her bushy tail.

“One at a time guys. Polly, you first.”

Polly danced as she realised she could jump on before her brothers. Pixie lay her tail on the ground and Polly crawled on, excited for what was to come.

“1,2... THREE!” Pixie swished her tail forward with all her might. Polly flew through the air, she flapped her little wings and soared higher than she had ever been. She could see over the park wall, out across the train track and over the waves in the sea.

Seconds later she landed face first into the pond, the cold water made her shiver but she smiled with delight after another Pixie catapult.

“AGAIN!” she shouted, as her brothers landed in the water beside her.

“Ducklings, I need your help. Mr. Jones is always angry, I think he needs to smell the roses. They are just so beautiful, it might help him relax. Wouldn’t it be great if he was our friend?” said Pixie.

“We love friends!”, the ducklings shouted, “We’re in!”

Pixie was excited and explained her plan.

“Tomorrow morning, before the park opens, we’ll meet at the bandstand. Percy, Polly and Patrick, you can’t be late. Once you hear the first train along the tracks, that’s our signal that we have to meet.”

“Ok, Pixie, but what do we do then?”, Percy asked.

“I’ll catch Mr. Jones’ attention and make him chase me to the roses. I’ll hide among them so he can’t see me. This is where I need your help.”, said Pixie.

“Great, this is exciting!” Patrick shouted.

“When I am between the roses, Mr. Jones will bend down looking for me. He will use his eyes to search for me, his ears to listen for me... and the silly man might just try and smell for me too.”

“You don’t smell Pixie!” said Polly.

“I know, this is when we will get him to smell the roses. When the wind blows their smell is stronger, I think it is because the roses are dancing and they want everyone to know how wonderful their scent is. We need to make the roses move.”

“Are you going to make wind, Pixie?” Percy giggled.

“No, that would be very difficult. You guys are going to move the roses. I’ll hide between them, Mr. Jones will be down looking for me and you guys will pull one rose to one side and then let it go. Once it swings up it will send all the lovely smells towards Mr. Jones and he will see how beautiful the roses smell, he will definitely relax and then thank us for helping him. We’ll have a new friend.”

“THAT’S A GREAT IDEA PIXIE!” screamed the ducklings.

“Thanks guys. Now, let’s get some rest, and remember, when the first train passes in the morning we must head to the bandstand.”

The next morning, Pixie’s ears picked up a rumbling sound in the distance, the train chugged into Blackrock station and the screeching of the brakes told her it was time to put her plan in place.

Pixie quietly left her sleeping parents in their burrow and headed for the bandstand. As she got closer she could see three tiny yellow shapes shivering on the steps. Her friends were ready.

“Morning guys!”

“Morning Pixie!”

“Are we all set? Do you know what to do?”

“Yes, we have picked the best rose and we know our muscles are ready.” The ducklings flapped their wings to show their strength.

“Great! Let’s go.”, Pixie gave the order.

The ducklings waddled off across the path towards the bed of roses. They wiggled their way in between the thorns and found their place beside their favourite rose.

“Let’s practice before Mr. Jones comes so we can get this right.” said Patrick. The ducklings agreed and decided to make a duck tower so that they could reach the petals of the rose.

Patrick crouched down and Percy hopped on his back, then Polly climbed on top of Patrick too before jumping on top of Percy. Their tower was ready. Polly’s wings reached out and pulled the rose a little, it swayed nicely letting out the lovely smell they needed.

While the ducklings practiced their plan, Pixie ran up the hill to the main gate and hid among the leaves.

It wasn’t long before Mr. Jones appeared at the gate. He took out his big metal key and stuck it in the lock. With a clatter he opened the huge gate, shoved his key into his pocket and growled at the little bird singing in the tree.

“Don’t worry Mr. Jones, we’ll make you smile.” Pixie whispered.

Mr. Jones walked to the little black and white house just inside the park. He opened the door and put on the kettle for a cup of tea. Pixie stood watching at the open door.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, SQUIRREL?!” Mr. Jones shouted.

Pixie didn’t move, she just grinned. This made Mr. Jones mad, he moved towards her and swung his big boot. Pixie was too quick, she jumped between his legs and pulled one of his shoelaces with her teeth.

Mr. Jones bent down to grab her, but cheeky Pixie jumped up and gave him a kiss on the nose instead. This made Mr. Jones furious. He chased Pixie out the door, his big boots thundering after her as she lead him down the winding path.

Pixie slowed down so that Mr. Jones could stay close and not give up. He grumbled and muttered and shouted at her but Pixie stayed ahead. Pixie lead Mr. Jones down into the open space where the bandstand was. She looked to her left and saw her friends among the roses.

The ducklings were getting scared now. Mr. Jones was getting closer to Pixie, he was running as fast as he could, bending down at the same time with his hands out wide to try and catch her.

Poor Pixie was getting slower as she moved towards the roses.

“I will eat you once I catch you squirrel!”, Mr. Jones roared.

“QUICK PIXIE, QUICK!”, the duckling tower was beginning to shake.

“Get ready guys, I’m coming!” Pixie shouted.

Pixie bounded into the rose bed and scuttled between the stalks before she found a nice hiding place.

“GET AWAY FROM THE ROSES!” roared Mr. Jones.

He bent down looking for Pixie, he looked left, he looked right. His eyes scanned the rose bed and his ears listened for any sign of brave Pixie.

“NOW!”, Percy gave the order and little Polly graabbed the rose. She moved the rose slowly backwards before letting it go and it popped quickly forward, just like they had planned.

“UH OH!” Pixie knew something was wrong straight away.
Poor Polly was now flying through the air. The thorn on the rose had caught her little wing and threw her forward.

She was heading straight for Mr. Jones’ nose.

Pixie and her friends looked on helplessly as Polly smashed into his big, squidgy nose.

Pixie raced in to save Polly as she dropped from his face, catching her with her tail.

Mr. Jones grabbed his flattened nose, “MY NOSE! OWWWWWW!” squealed the huge man like a big baby.

He looked towards the pond and saw Pixie bounding through the grass with three ducklings hanging onto her tail.

“That was fun!” Pixie shouted as she used her tail to fling the ducklings back into the water.

Percy, Polly and Patrick landed in the water with a splash. The four friends sat on the edge of the pond and laughed about their morning adventure.

“Is he our friend now?”, Percy asked.

They all laughed.

“Not yet”, said Pixie “we will need another plan!”

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?"

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!

After Africa

From 7 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon the Chifundo Campus is alive with the sound of children. Smiles, laughter, shrieks and yells pierce the air. We could be in any playground in the western world, we're not. We're in the heart of Zomba, one of the poorest places on earth. Broken hose pipes form skipping ropes one minute and impromptu telephones the next as imagination runs wild. The girls clap their hands while singing songs and the boys leave dust in their wake tearing after one another. In the classroom their desire to learn is insatiable, they devour books and do not stop until they understand words like "rustle", "smokey" and "Belfast". They hang on our every word and some now pronounce "thumb" with a strong Wexford accent.

It's winter in Malawi, the clock strikes 6pm and the sun disappears. Cold air replaces the scorching heat of two hours previous. Darkness invades every space. The houses in their villages have no electricity, no heating, no running water... the kids disappear across their threshold where they stay until light returns. Childhood should be full of stimulants and sensory activities as they explore their world, here it's not. "Go inside and read, draw a picture, learn a song" or "Play outside with your brothers and sisters"... worthless statements once the sun goes down on these villages.

There are no psychologists or child experts on hand but it's hard not to wonder what impact this has? A prisoner knows why they are locked up each day, these children suffer the same fate because of the lottery of their circumstance.

We all have potential and generally we are afforded the opportunity to fulfil a large part of it.

Go right back to your earliest memory of school, take a look around the classroom. Pick out your classmates, the uniforms, the pictures on the walls, the coats hung neatly on their pegs, the nature table... Delete everything except the students and keep adding kids until 99 surround you. Bring in a teacher, watch him trip over students, forced to sit on the floor, as he makes his way to the blackboard. He begins his lesson and you strain to see beyond the cluster of heads in front of you, your ears betray you as they ignore the teacher and pick up the constant background noise. This is your reality, day after day you come to primary school.

Secondary school is your goal, to get there you need to achieve 60% in your English exam. Good luck!

The Chifundo Foundation takes some of the poorest children out of this situation and gives them a chance. Your donations send these kids to private schools, where they are taught in smaller groups, by better teachers. Their education will lead them to a job and break the cycle of poverty.

One boy can draw a full skeleton and name all the parts. His father earns €30 a month as a tailor who's regarded as too old fashioned to require his services.

One morning we called the children to class. They came running, all except one, he lay motionless in the shade of the tree. He did not have the energy to move from his perch. No wonder, he hadn't been fed since the previous afternoon.

There were 25 girls in our group, innocent, happy and intelligent. Without education, the dark shadow of prostitution looms large.

There is a boy of 12 who lives with his brother and sister, his parents are dead. His brother and sister are 4 and 6. He missed the first two days of class and on the third turned up in a shirt, trousers and shoes, doing his best.

A wonderful Belfast man set about gathering discarded kids football jerseys. Each day we handed out a new jersey to three deserving recipients, by the end of the two weeks they all had one. Now there are kids wearing football jerseys with Gotze, Alonso, Coutinho and one poor fella with Ibe on the back, daring to dream. Their gratitude was incredible, bowing before us as they received their gift with open arms.

In the morning we taught them English, in the afternoon we played sports with them. The way they stared, they way they listened, the way they marvelled... If nothing else the children of Chifundo know there is something beyond their village and education can get them there.

They don't know your name, what you look like or where you are from but these children know you exist. One day, because of what you have done for them, they will express their gratitude to you in person.

When you strip everything away, circumstance, hardship, geography, disease... children are children. Check out these kids being kids!

Into Africa

"Why are you doing it?” he asked, his eyes burning a hole in my conscience. I held his inquisitive gaze for a moment before I asked him to repeat the question. Not because I'd forgotten the question, I was simply buying some time as I figured out how best to respond.

It appeared as though I had done or was about to do something outrageous, probably cruel and most likely illegal. "No, genuinely, I want to know why you are doing this?” my interrogator probed deeper.

I went all Billie Piper in my response, “Because I want to!" Fingers crossed the life of wild debauchery and ill informed choices will not be my lot too. Actually, wild debauchery doesn't sound too bad.

Alas, my friend's question is valid... and has stayed with me for the six weeks since he pricked my conscience. Now, with less than a week to go, I wonder, "Why am I heading off to coach the children in Malawi football for a week in July?"

Don't worry Billie, I do want to, but there must be more to it... and there is, I think.

These children are poor, but then what does poor mean? They live in houses with mud for a floor, most cannot read or write. Among these children prostitution has robbed them of a mother. Their families may earn as little as fifty euro a month, yet petrol costs the same as it does here.

Yet they play, they play with anything and everything. Bits of wood, broken glass, machetes... a ball made of elastic bands. I want to see what they can do with their ball and given the opportunity what they could do with a size 4 regulation football. Will their eyes fill with wonder as they chase not one or two, or ten, but thirty brand new balls in a field? What will happen if we give these children the opportunity to experience something kids in our neighbourhoods take for granted?

Maybe nothing. Or maybe it will light a spark, not to become a footballer, but to realise what they have is not all they must have and that with a little help and a lot of effort change is possible.

I want to go so I can spend time with my friend. Our lives are busy and time is precious. Social encounters in our world revolve around weddings, birthdays, stags, nights out and a lot gets lost in the haze. He is one of my greatest friends; he sees no boundaries, no obstacles, no impossibles. He and his family gave birth to the Chifundo Foundation!

He's a teacher in a foreign land. I want to hear his stories from that land as he teaches the children of Chifundo how to play the tin whistle or sing a Beatles song. The man is one of the most deadly five a side players I have ever seen, I want to play football with him and with every touch reminisce of college days gone by. A week of memories to last us past the next wedding or stag is what I want.

I don't have much but I have more than I need. These children don't have anything and need much more than that. I'm no mathematician but it would appear I have something to give. If I was in need would these children come to my aid? They don't know I exist nor have the means. I know they exist and I have the means.

Why am I doing it? Because I can help do something that might make a difference, because I want to do something that might make a difference and most of all, because these children want someone who wants to make a difference. Or so I have been told...

"How much money do you give to charity each year?” my friend asked his parents. They totted it up and realised if they pooled their resources they could do something together. They asked a friend in Malawi what they could do with this money and the response was simple...education. The Chifundo Foundation started by sponsoring 5 children through primary school in 2007. To date they have helped in the education of nearly 50 of the poorest children in Malawi.

Read all about it here! There's a donate button just waiting to be clicked too, it's on the right hand side on desktop and all the way down the bottom on mobile.