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.