I ended up in my dad’s old office last week for the first time in almost 20 years. Although the building has changed dramatically the office is still the same. When I was young I would visit every day after school as I had an extremely important job. Dad would give me 15p to purchase his daily cigar from the shop across the road, but as it only cost 14p the change was mine to spend.

Now I realise that 1p may not sound like much, but when you are only 7 years old and you can purchase 2 sweets for a penny it’s not bad. Everyday I would agonise between cola bottles, black jacks, fruit salads and chocolate mice, although generally cola bottles won out.

Sometimes on a Friday, generally at the end of the month, I would be given 20p. Well this was the equivalent of winning a 6 week rollover in ‘EuroMillions’, but without the kidnap risk. The whole sweet counter could be mine - almost! Decisiveness has never been my forte and I think it may stem from those agonizing choices as a child. Mainly I would opt for something that was tasty, but never lasted very long like a ‘Snowball’. (for the uninitiated a Snowball is a poor girls’ Walnut Whip, think Jordan vs Erin O’Connor, cheap but still tasty).

The alternative was some Candy Pop Corn and penny sweets or I could get maximum ROI by buying a ‘Big Time Bar’? (rock hard caramel covered in chocolate with a bright yellow wrapper, which took around a week to eat). The challenge of buying a ‘Big Time Bar’ is that my dad would offer to save my teeth by taking a massive bite. I doubted the veracity of this altruistic action.

Although I struggle to remember what happened last weekend I can vividly remember my afternoon routine; the smell of cigar smoke, swinging around on the office chair while eating my sweets, telling Dad about playing Red Rover and who was my very best friend that day. In the current climate, due to a variety of health and safety concerns most of this activity wouldn’t be possible.

But at least the important memories remain and some of my back molars will forever hold the imprint of those bloody ‘Big Time’ bars. Maybe Dad did know what he was doing after all.

My chocolate habit is starting to impact, as I’m struggling to get into my denims - any more than 4 bunny hops to wriggle-in is a warning. On the plus side, which I increasingly am, the vocabulary of the local Indian shop assistant has been extended from Please and Thank-you to Please, Thank-you and Bounty Bar.

Normally I am militant about fat moaners and unsympathetically advise people to either shut their cake hole or eat less and exercise more - South Beach Diet my arse. Instead I am implementing the West of Ireland Diet. I have come down to dial up land for a few days to de-tox. The great thing about home is that I know exactly what food will be in the house and there is no opportunity for late night sweet shopping or delivery. (Unless Dominos increase their delivery range by 100 miles, which even for a customer of my loyalty is unlikely).

My mother operates a very strict low fat policy: the fridge will have one pack of rashers (rindless) two tomatoes, half a block of low fat cheese and a variety of foul ‘I can’t believe someone thinks this tastes like butter’ spreads. The only thing close to bad food is in the old red biscuit tin - brown bread, un-sliced. (I was in my twenties before I could say with any degree of authority that an item was the best thing since sliced bread. Prior to this I suffered from a lack of reference point). Even the dreaded carb intake at home is limited, although unintentionally, by the bread knife.

My parents received the knife as a wedding gift over 40 years ago and it hasn’t been sharpened since. A sheet of A4 paper would be considered a lethal weapon in comparison. Using a combination of force and friction you try to slice the bread, this has one of two results; a selection of breadcrumbs that make nanobots appear large and cumbersome or a slice the size of aeroplane wheel wedges. Either way you are unlikely to create a gourmet sandwich and therefore carb intake is restricted - genius.

I plan to launch this Blunt Knife Diet and follow-up One Prong Fork Diet with a book, web site and local clubs. Like most of the followers, it’s going to be huge. I can feel it in my water retention.

(comments are limited due to lack of sugar rush for the next few days)

My mother is the archetypal Mrs. Doyle. Why ask a question once when you can repeat it ad naseum? As I have grown up with this I am almost immune to the constant barrage of repeated questions. Visitors have no such immunity.

One unfortunate occasion my boyfriend was visiting for tea. Now I had fore-warned him to accept the tea, in order to avoid the “you will, you will, you will�? scene. Unfortunately I hadn’t considered the food option. On being offered a slice of apple tart by my mother he foolishly refused.

I plumped the cushions, pulled up a blanket and settled in for what would be a long conversation.

“Would you like me to heat the tart?�?, mum

“No it’s fine, thanks, I’ll just have tea�?

“I baked it myself this morning, so it’s fresh�? mum

“It looks lovely but I’m just not a big apple fan�?

“What if I got some ( X ) to go with it?�? (repeat question with every possible combination of food substances, solid and liquid that could accompany apple tart – including jam! )

“No really you’re fine�? ( repeated after EVERY suggestion )

“Are you allergic to (X) in the tart?�? ( repeat question using all items that are required to bake a tart )

“No I don’t think so�? ( repeated after EVERY question )

“What if I go into the kitchen, make some pastry, line a tin, cut up my daughter, place her in the dish and sprinkle with apples and cook. Would you eat it then?

Technically, she didn’t say this and instead finished up with:

“Well I’ll just put some on your plate and you can eat it if you like�? mum

*Boyfriend eats tart*

Now I could never understand why my mum insists on repeating a question until she gets the answer she wants – until last week.

I was bringing my niece and nephew to the beach. Before we left I asked them if they wanted food or the loo before we left the house - both declined both options. Ten minutes into the journey my nephew announced he wanted the loo. I was on the motorway so options were limited. Pointlessly I asked why he didn’t go BEFORE we left. I pulled onto the hard shoulder, suspended him over the grass – no joy. Returning to the car I put one of the emergency nappies on him, just in case.

A while later he announced he had filled his nappy – this I knew from the aroma in the non-air conditioned car. Now this would have been fine had his cousin not picked this time to start a row. As they were both strapped into their seats it was hard for him to retaliate. Being a clever little boy, he reached for the ultimate weapon of mass destruction – down his nappy. So began the dirty protest in my mother’s car.

Arriving at the beach I attempted to clean the car and cousin with baby wipes. Almost in tears I brought them both down to the water to clean off. I also removed the lumps that were attached to my recently blow dried hair. ( did I mention I am never having children )

Once that debacle was over we finally sat down to build sandcastles. Ten minutes later both kids announced they were hungry. Again I fruitlessly asked why they didn’t eat in the house BEFORE we left. (I don’t have the mother knack of always travelling with food in my handbag).

As they were starting to get cranky with the hunger, I had no choice but to pack them back into the stinking car and go for food. The nearest shop only sold sweets. Que complete chaos as shit covered kids rampaged the pick’n’mix. Wearily I tried to load the sugar filled kids back in the car and head for home.

Total beach time 20 minutes, total expedition time, 3 hours.

So, next time my mum repeatedly asks the same question I know it stems from the experience of raising 4 kids who don’t know their own minds. Mother always knows best.

PS - hello to the lovely ladies visiting from Beaut, which is acting as an extended comment column for me today

Well it’s official, my love life has reached rock bottom and has started digging. My parents tried to match-make me, at a funeral!

During the wake my parents bumped into some old friends, who happened to have their son with them. Apparently, he is recently returned from the UK and so his folks are trying to re-introduce him to local society. What better place than a funeral. The whole encounter was super embarrassing. Particularly as I used to know him as a teenage.

“Flirty, you remember Mac, I think you used to play together when you were young�?, mum

Well I certainly remember him trying to play “hide the sausage�?, while I crossed my legs so tightly that you couldn’t have fitted a slice of streaky bacon between them, let alone any other meat product.

“Lovely to see you again Mac. I wouldn’t have recognised you.�? Me

Which is a good job because back then he had a highlighted blond mullet, lots of puppy fat and a very suspect black leather bomber jacket.

“You’ve changed a lot too.�? Mac

Thank god for that, after seeing my school photos one ex-boyfriend remarked, “ you really were queen of the ugly people�?. The teenage years are unusually cruel.

Now Mac has grown up into a strapping lad; tall, well built and no sign of a mullet. After some challenging polite conversation we both stood staring at the floor, while our parents exchange a crammer’s guide to our recent history. We did make another attempt at conversation, but one of my aunts grabbed me by the arm, announcing loudly;

“You’re second cousin Paul, twice removed on your father’s side has just arrived. I don’t think you’ve seen him since you were nine and fell in the slurry pit*. Come over and say hello.�? (Bridget Jones never got this level of detail)

Ideally I would like to have stayed talking to Mac but not really a lot you can say after that exchange and certainly wasn’t the time to swap numbers. By the time I eventually managed to escape Paul and the other 37 cousins, Mac was long gone.

The whole way home in the car my parents spoke loudly to one another about what a wonderful boy Mac was and how he was making such a go of it back in Ireland. How hard it must be for him not knowing many people and the importance of offering the hand of friendship. I could continue in this line for the next 35 minutes like my parents did but you get the idea.

Well who am I to argue with age and experience, the old pair maybe right. Am currently debating sending him an email. For all I know he could have a wife, a mistress, a girlfriend and 3 children but only one way to find out!

*I was nine and testing out my new wellies in what I thought was a mud field at my Uncle’s farm. After jumping in the middle I slowly started to sink. Luckily my father who was moving the car at the time happened to look in his rear view mirror and see his daughter slowly disappearing. Had to be hosed down outside the back door and spent the rest of the day wearing only my duffel coat and aunt’s socks while smelling of pig shit – lovely.