Are you a psychopath? (and other stories.)

I heard an interesting fact recently - apparently one of the most reliable ways to determine if someone is a psychopath or not is to monitor them to see if they yawn. If they don't, then they are most definitely a psychopath and you should remove yourself from their presence fairly lively. If they do yawn they are 100% normal and you can be best friends 4 eva. 

Obviously I was mildly curious to know why psychopaths never experience tiredness. How can they not get tired? And if that's true of all psychopaths, have they tried the paleo diet? That'd sort them right out. When I say I was mildly curious, I mean I furiously embarked on a terror fueled Wikipedia exploration in search of answers. If they have 24 hours a day to put in, how have fluffy bunnies not become an extinct species? I'm pretty sure if I had 8 hours extra in my day there's a chance I'd end up taking out newborn lambs for sport too. 

So, my research revealed a multitude. Firstly there's this thing out there called 'psychology' that is, apparently, a science. It's defined as the science of the mind. I wanted to know more but was reluctant to purchase the recommended starter kit (glass ball, some scented oils and a pack of tarot cards). Anyway, the more advanced scientists in this area have devoted years of research into the yawn. Why do we do it? What does it achieve? Why does it annoy lecturers? Is there a more attractive substitute? As far as I can tell, the answers are not very clear. What did emerge though is that yawning actually has little or nothing to do with being tired. It's a social cue. Which is why, presumably, psychopaths don't necessarily pick up on it.

Consider the following scenario:
  
Doctors waiting room
       Woman 1: Wow, that's a big yawn from the guy in the corner. That's why he's here at the doctors. So stressed and tired. Poor guy. Probably only has a few months left. Best yawn back to show my solidarity and heartfelt well wishes.
        Man 1: Myyyy homeboyyyy. Dude must be tired, probably up all night playing GTA5. What a brah. Better show him I approve of his devotion to the cause and give him a cheeky yawn back.
        Woman 2: God, everyone in here is yawning. Am I the only one not getting any post midnight action? This is like, so depressing. Best put on a bit of a show here. Yawn.
         Guy in corner: Look at all these creatures opening their mouths and closing them again. I'm so glad I'm a superior being and don't have to waste hours with such trivial nonsense. Oh wow. I just figured out what's going on. One of them must have glanced at me in a polite furtive fashion  and promptly averted their gaze as British people are born to do. Rather unfortunate, but I reckon they think my jaw-lock is a yawn. Bless their souls! And now they are all compelled to return my yawn, like an adult version of pass the parcel. Well, isn't that just precious. In other news, that receptionist's nails are exceptional. They would look so well on my mantelpiece. 

So, as this is a very well thought out scenario, likely to be happening at least once per minute in any given place the world over, it can be concluded that there are psychopaths all around us. #stats #reliable And we'll never know. Not until Apple release their long awaited and highly anticipated 'yawnometer' app anyway. (Copyright. Just in case this blog takes off). But then I figured - what use is a robust and genius app like the yawnometer going to be if your iPhone runs out of juice just as you decide to zoom in on some dude's mouth on the underground? He is wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits after-all. Classic psychopath attire I would imagine. So what do you do then?

Well luckily you have me here to put in some serious background research. It turns out that studies have shown (real ones this time, from Universities, peer reviewed and all.) that certified psychopaths have been confirmed to have a lesser functioning orbitofrontal cortex than average in tests. This part of the brain is the bit involved in smelling. Because of their dodgy orbitofrontal cortices, the theory was put forward that this probably had a direct impact on their sense of smell. Cue more tests. Quite interestingly, I have not been able to locate results from these tests, where certified psychopaths were made smell burning rubber and mint leaves through prison cell bars (or similar. Presumably.) But I have no doubt that the theory is solid. Look at all the big words for heavens sake! They must be on to something.

So anyway the answer - what do you do when your iPhone dies when you're on the underground and a guy wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits is staring at the 'Use to break glass in case of Emergency' mini hammer?  You let one rip. Obviously. That will enable you to confirm his psychological status. I'm not sure what you do then, but we've figured out the hard part and that's what matters. 

The extra great thing about these useful life tools is that they can be applied in all kinds of situations. You don't have to be on the underground with a guy wearing a three piece suit with black Nike Free 5.0 flyknits. So next time you're at a friends Summer BBQ party and Daniel's cousin's husband pops some goldfish from the tank inside on the grill, you will know what to do.

A cultural journey: Welcome to Singapore.

Lent was a difficult time in my life this year. For forty long days and forty even longer nights, I managed to keep myself from scrolling through twitter or facebook home feeds. I do think Jesus, Mary and the donkey are all great, but I didn't really do it for them if I'm being honest. They had half of Ireland abstaining from Dairy Milk, much to the displeasure of Mr. and Mrs. Cadbury who were forced to live on Tesco value baked beans for the month, so I didn't feel my sacrifice could really add much to the cause. I did it more to see if I could repair the repetitive strain injury that has been slowly developing at the base of my right thumb for the past year. I feel the main source of blame here rests with pre-school teachers for not beating ambidexterity into me when I was young and pliable. Since Snake and Snake II came into my life circa 2003, I have been exercising my right thumb for about two hours a day (give or take. Mostly give). The fallout is only just beginning I fear.

Anyway, apart from checking notifications and replying to direct messages, I managed to succeed with my insane mission. It was tough. There were times when I was sure I wouldn't make it. At one point I was so desperate to know what Amy Huberman and BOD were having for dinner that I developed a probability algorithm based on offers of the week in M&S, the temperature in Dublin and popularity ratings per dish calculated through assignment of points for protein content, organic sourcing and environmental sustainability. I'm not sure how well it worked though...I can't really see Brian tucking into a beetroot and bean salad for four consecutive days, as my program predicted. Some adjustments needed before I sell it to the masses.

Anyway, this week after the Easter break, I was back in business. After a marathon catch-up session on Twitter, I eventually got stuck into content from this decade. The following post caught my attention, hitting me from all angles, forcing me to investigate further.

I'm sure at this stage you've all taken a shot at solving the bugger. I saw it and went 'Math! I can math. I can math real good. Lets do this. Come at me brah. Bring all yo money'...and so on and so forth. Ever since my dentist fitted my grill, I've been finding it increasingly difficult to approach life without a passive aggressive attitude. I really need to watch myself. 

ANYWAY! A bit of background to the problem - I gather the thing went viral about a week ago. It's a maths problem from a school in Singapore. Many will remember it in years to come as the soul destroying time when most of the western world realised that 14 year old kids in Singapore had superior cognitive function to them. Prozac and fish oil sales skyrocketed and the hardcore high achievers shipped their offspring off to Southeast Asia, for the good of the human race. It was traumatic. I went through the guts of half a refill pad and spent at least twenty minutes solving the thing. Ultimately the sense of achievement when I finally got it was nice....but I have some ongoing concerns that I feel need addressed.

Firstly, it's rather unusual for a girl to just make friends with two lads. I assume, seeing as the first question they ask her is her age, that they are either in school still, or have been dragged up and have no concept of what is an inappropriate question to ask a lady. For the sake of a keen hope in the standards of humanity, we will base further analysis on the assumption that the lads are indeed just kids. Now, having been a kid myself, I find the concept of a girl befriending two boys totally alien. In reality if she said hello they would have chased her up the field with hurleys. So from the get go, the question is absurd.

Secondly, this is 2015. Even if they did decide to enjoy each others company, there is no way the three of them spent more than a minute together without whipping out their phones to give each other the add on facebook. At which point they would have seen not only Cheryls birth date, but also her relationship status, her extended family, preferred reading material, embarrassing celebrity crushes and the last time she checked in at the gym. Go Cheryl. 

Thirdly, I've never met a child with self assurance as developed as Cheryl's. When one meets two new lads, one does not coyly lick ones lips and present them with a brain boggling conundrum. Normal people are too preoccupied with the state of their hair and whether they have food in their teeth to come up with ridiculous mind teasers. And what ten year old has the presence of mind to play the lads off each other, planting material so that the guy with the higher IQ will eventually be revealed and thus a potential suitor identified. It's just all a bit unrealistic, no?

Finally, what Singaporean couples are going around naming their kids Cheryl, Albert and Bernard? I'm all for embracing foreign culture and all the rest of it but...ah here!

I'm a Scientist...if you make use of the GPS coordinate system and some modern tracking technology you can quite easily get me out of here.

I'm after signing myself up for what promises to be a mental March! For the action seekers out there, leave now...when I say mental March, I mean a March that will be slightly busier than the ordinary March. So, lower those expectations, you'll be shocked by how much more enjoyable life is when you drop all preconceived notions and just allow yourself to be amazed. Or so I like to think. When I permit myself to think. If you do it too often the wondrous joy can wear off. And you don't want that. It a rationing exercise. 

Anyway, all hesitation regarding brain engagement aside, I really am a bit out of my depth here. I got an email in work that should have gone straight to spam, but instead landed front and center in my inbox. It looked innocent enough, and at twenty to five on a Friday evening I have to admit that I had let my guard down slightly. Before I really knew what was happening I had followed a link to a colourful website and applied to be a contestant on 'I'm a Scientist, get me out of here!' - presumably a spin-off of the reality television staple 'I'm a celebrity....'.

I spent the best part of the following week imagining all it would entail. Instead of eating ostrich bits, we would be given the opportunity to blast them with significant amounts of radiation and record the results in a structured fashion. Instead of just crawling out of a water tank full of  baby sharks using blind luck to succeed, we would be allowed repeat the process a number of times to determine margins of error, and obviously a control water tank with no baby sharks would be present to enable viable comparisons to baseline. Bushtucker trials would become Bushtucker clinical trials. The winner would receive a lifetime subscription to 'Scientific America' and rights to publish all breakthrough discoveries from the shows activities.

I immediately began my ground work. Although I was confident enough in my applications of good scientific practice, I assumed that all other aspects of the competition would be equally important. Having no experience in applying fake tan or finding the best position to sleep in with breast enhancements,  I knew I had a lot to get through. I downloaded Katie Price's autobiography (to my Kindle obviously...reading that openly at lunch time in work would have breached the terms of my employment I reckon). I hoped to glean some top tips on maintaining a positive mental attitude in tougher times and how to channel all the extra confidence that would be oozing from my E cups. I also started to compile a list of all the insects known to me and their protein content. Scouts motto - be prepared.

Two weeks later, when the email confirming the success of my application came through, I felt ready. I had been to TK Maxx and purchased a fine selection of capri pants. I phoned my doctor and asked for the works immunisation wise - Japanese encephalitis included.  That was most likely over cautious on my part but I had eaten some pulled pork of questionable origin from a street stall at the Fringe festival back in August. and have been paranoid ever since.

It was only as I poured through the terms and conditions of my appointment as a contestant that a sinking realisation hit. I would not require any jabs whatsoever, as I would not be leaving the UK. I would not require the fake tan either, as I would not be leaving my computer screen. I would still need the capri pant selection as a reliable source informed me that they will be making a comeback in 2017 (take note!), the silver lining to a very harsh blow. I would not be going to the jungle - that extravagance was apparently reserved for Z-list celebrities only.

The take home point from this blog post is to read the terms and conditions before enthusiastically clicking accept. Not following this advice is a very very bad thing to do. Life is precious, read before you click. However, on this one occasion, I think managed to land on my feet. But it's a statistical anomaly. Don't risk it for a biscuit. You don't need another biscuit anyway. Just saying.

 'I'm a Scientist, get me out of here' is in actual fact a science outreach program for kids - scientists are assigned a zone and are in competition with each other for the coming fortnight. Participating classes from schools can book live chat slots where the scientists answer quick fire rounds of questions. Children can also ask whatever science related questions they like on online forums and scientists answer in their spare time. The children vote for the best answers and by the end of the two weeks only the winning scientist remains. The prize is a monetary sum to be spent on science outreach activities. You'll find my profile here in the medical physics zone. Drop in over the next two weeks and see if you can help me out with some of the madness!

In addition to top notch science, I reckon the secret to winning is be down with the kids. #fosho #dude #cool #geeksville #specsareso20now #instagrampositive #instagramnegative #instananogram #heisenbergforpres #ican'teven #ican'todd  #nofilt...ration #yolowpressure #doyouevenscience?

...wish me luck!

An open letter to people selling shoes on ebay

Dear sellers of high heels on ebay,

You may find some of the hard hitting points from this letter a little hurtful. I am coming from a place of love though, this is for your own good. I want us all to get along. I don't want there to be any confusion when I'm done, so I will be frank. Take a moment now to prepare. If ever there was an occasion to comfort eat, this is it. Go and make a hot chocolate with gold top milk and fill the pockets of your nightgown to maximum capacity with Oreos. Nobody is judging you. I have numbered my observations for your convenience. Breath in deeply and proceed. 

1) Heels claiming to be heels that aren't heels. If I search for 'high heels' on ebay, one can reasonably assume that I am not doing so for my general health and well-being, but rather that I actually want to purchase high heels. So when I set to it, full of youthful expectation and an irrational sense of hope akin to that experienced annually by Liverpool fans, I envisage spending joy filled hours scrolling through reams of shoes, glorious shoes. The search should not be interrupted with a dose of sensible. If I wanted sensible I would have put an advert in the parish bulletin. See Figure 1 for the full horror. An inch of solid black rubber does not elevate an item from bog standard loafer to high heel. Also it should be noted that having a massive lump of rubber underfoot will not protect you in the unfortunate event of being struck by lightning. So really these bad boys have nothing going for them and should not be deviously masquerading as high heels. You are only embarrassing yourself here.

Figure 1. A solid pair of loafers. Nice air holes to keep your athletes foot from thriving. In a stunning shade of bland, perfect for the transition season when you 'don't know what to be wearing atall, sure you'd catch your death out there still but isn't there a grand stretch in the evenings all the same Mary?'

2) Heels claiming to have been 'worn once'. This is an ambiguous term, and ambiguity does not sell. What do you mean 'worn once'? Did you pop them on, watch an episode of Hell's Kitchen, get the life scared out of you by Gordon Ramsay, decide you're never leaving the house again and silently slide the shoes off in a fit of moderate anxiety? Did you wear them with a pair of your boyfriends rugby socks folded over twice and climb repeatedly up and down the cream carpeted stairs muttering Hail Mary's under your breath in the vain hope that you would have them broken in before Marion's 21st? Or did you let your cousin Brian mash his hairy size 11 toes into them for his charity 5km fun run where he went in full drag? Figure 2 depicts an exemplary example of shoes that regardless of whether they have genuinely only been 'worn once' or not, should never be marketed as 'worn once'. You will lose all credibility, Clodagh from Cavan will give you a sellers score of one star, your ebay career will be over and all your future hopes and dreams will melt away in front of your eyes.

Figure 2. Brian? Did you do this?

3) Heels lined up for a photo with the left shoe on the right and the right shoe on the left. WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS? Leave.

Figure 3. My OCD is flaring up. Does anyone have a brown paper bag? I need oxygen, ASAP. Do you feel guilty? You should. 

4) Inappropriate placement of heels for the picture. Now this is a rather more sensitive area. My previous points, I feel, are well justified. I would confidently wager that most would be in agreement with me. My next point may not be so much of a crowd pleaser though. I only dare voice my opinion now that I know my dream of running for general election has already been shattered (Gerry Adams feels this blog teeters dangerously towards undermining party policy). The origins of my problem with modern day ebay shoe positioning lie firmly in a rigid Catholic upbringing. I've contacted Father O'Connell-Murphy and Brother Benedict McLoughlin and both are prepared to back me up. We have come together and, between Father O'Connell-Murphy's organisational prowess and Brother Benedict's belief in the human race, come up with a temporary solution. There will be a Novena sometime in mid-February to pray for the redemption of souls engaged in suggestive shoe positioning on global forums. I struggled greatly with the issue of whether to place such filth on here or not, but in the end figured that forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. 

Figure 4. Sweet merciful mother of Mary. Never in all my days....

5) The close up shot. You are not employed by National Geographic, presumably (I realise I'm stereotyping but do National Geographic employees typically sell wedges with free delivery from East-Hampshire? No.) So macro-photography isn't the way to go. If you are photographing the shoes in a bedroom approximately the size of wheelie bin, perhaps placing the shoes in a corner and standing diagonally opposite might work? When one does not include a full size picture, I tend to let my imagination run amok and assume either a rottweiler has done away with the left foot or there are some class of bodily fluids prevalent. 

Figure 5. Lovely studs. No questions there. But...well...I have trust issues okay?

6) Soft edges. I do appreciate photographic artistry. Really, I do. But there's a time and a place. And this isn't it. If you are in such a hurry to take the photo, the logical conclusion is to assume that there is something very big wrong with the shoes and you just can't be rid of them quickly enough. Either that or your camera is not capable of the demands you are putting on it. You need to assess the number of frames per second you can capture without motion blur setting in and tell your enchanted tap shoes to slow down to an appropriate rate for the picture. 

Figure 6.  Tap tap tap tap tap tap, look at me go guys! I got the rhythm, Uhmmm, hmmmm. tap tap tappity tap

Thank you for your time. 

Rebooting Ireland - eh maybe just try plugging it out and in again?

Right, let's talk about Lucinda. She's only after going and throwing a massive spanner in the works and to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to make of it all.  

There I was, sitting back on the couch in the kitchen, feet up, rocking a dressing gown and pajamas combo, waiting on a coffee to make its way to my hand. It was that nice spell after the Christmas madness but before work takes over again, and only about 10:30 in the morning. Having just surfaced from my lair and with free reign of the remote for the afternoon, I was living the dream. As the general Christmas experience tends to numb the senses somewhat, I was not entirely tuned into the happenings on the radio. Who cares what's going on in the world when one has to decide if chocolate biscuit cake for breakfast is morally wrong or just obnoxiously 2015? Anyway, I was away in my perfect little world when Dad tears through the kitchen door, turns the volume on the radio up to at least twenty (Jesus, Mary and Joseph - the neighbours!) and roars at me to hush. The last time such events occurred was 2009 when Liam Clancy regretfully passed away. I feared the worst.

The two of us sat in silence for an hour or so, soaking in the news and making a heroic attempt to decipher the Mayo accent. For those interested, both the coffee and the chocolate biscuit cake found their way to me. I tried to Shazzam some of Eddie Hobbs's speech, but even that magnificent technology crumbled weakly in the face of the Cork dialect - for some reason it kept telling me the song was Independent woman by Destiny's Child. 'All the honeys who makin’ money, Throw your hands up at me, baby' ...well now actually as I'm typing this I realise that that may not have been a mistake at all. And who am I to doubt technology?!

For those of you not entirely up to speed with Irish politics - on the morning of January 2nd 2015, Lucinda Creighton, an Independent TD for the Dublin South-East constituency from Mayo, held a press conference announcing the impending formation of a brand new political party. Talk about upheaval lads! Did you know you could do that?

For the record I think the whole show is only half baked, if even. Without a name, sound policies or even members to back it up, the 'party' is more of a hashtag at the minute than anything else. I think they should have gone and sorted out their ideas before putting themselves up on the national platform for scrutiny. They've a few long nights with bottles of Jameson and a whiteboard to put in before the main launch date. Having said that, the notion intrigues me.

Starting from scratch is a daunting task. Where are they supposed to even begin? I've been thinking about this a fair amount and still can't come up with a plan of attack. But I find myself wondering, how great is the need to start from the beginning? #RebootIreland is all well and good but why is there such a desire for this fresh start? Irish politics may be a complete car crash, but a new party isn't going to change that....is it?

The answer is no. The nature of Ireland is being overlooked - we claim to want a straight talking government....but do we really? Ahhhhh go on, go on go on go on go on go on. We all want to eradicate alcoholism, but when the gardai close the lock-in in Murphy's bar of a Sunday night we are outraged. We want to have safe roads to drive on, but when we're done for doing 55 in a 50 zone the first thing we do is get on to the second cousin who might be able to sort it out. We are all for saving the planet, but when the recycling bin is only collected every other week we snake a few milk cartons into the open fire. What's the harm sure? Ireland has always and will always be about the trickery, the skullduggary, the desire to have the craic. And we can try and have politics separate from that, but I don't think that's how it works. Some things are ingrained.

Symphony No. 5

So this week in work we did our Secret Santa exchange. Being physicists and therefore incapable/unwilling to do things like everybody else does them, we decided to shake up the standard Secret Santa formula. This decision was made with the majority of the group believing we were on the cusp of a massive social-scientific breakthrough - could we disprove the hypothesis that festive cheer must be based on time-tested traditions? The standard, for those of you not familiar with office Christmas rituals, is swapping gifts worth a monetary value of ten pounds sterling. This, you may note, is enough to purchase two large glasses of bog standard pinot grigio (there is a bog out the back of most vineyards, or so my friend Jean-Pierre-Claude-Marco who has both Argentinian and Chilean ancestors reliably informs me). This knowledge really puts the burden of the whole custom into cold harsh perspective. Of course if it were acceptable to present a colleague with two large glasses of pinot grigio, there would not be any problems and minds could rest easy that money was being well spent. However, this practice generally escalates into an awkward exchange involving not only the wine, but AA pamphlets and home use blood alcohol kits. It is therefore rather more customary to exchange mugs or candles. Socks are also known to be a solid option. You just need to be careful that you are presenting to a person confident in their own personal hygiene standards. Otherwise a five pack of new socks can be interpreted as an underhanded 'message' and all hell might break loose. 

We escaped the booby trap filled awkwardness of the ceremony this year with our Secret Santa spin-off. Instead of token gifts, we were each to compile a CD of tracks from our personal music collection. A 'mix-tape', if you will. The idea was genius. Clean-cut and simple. It should have been the most hassle free Secret Santa of all time. Should have. Somewhere along the way something happened, and the innocuous CD turned into a PhD worthy mega-project. 

The cold evenings of early December passed away at an alarming rate. Most of my time was spent updating iTunes, which I gather should optimally be done every 7 minutes or so. One of the quirky little rules our group decided on was that all music selected had to come from a pre-existing music library. Anyone caught purchasing Now 89 as a quick and trendy fix would be hung, drawn and quartered, or the 2014 equivalent (not entirely sure but I think it's intermittent mobile data restriction).

I was a little intimidated initially I must admit; I knew my iTunes had not been updated since circa 2008. This lack of modern input was quite intentional believe it or not. Our family had had a run in with a neighbour, who shall remain nameless, towards the end of 2008. I had spent hours of my life ripping collectors edition ABBA albums from disk to the family PC. The work was methodical and glorious in its nature. Every CD that had ever passed our doors was correctly named and placed with associated artwork on our family iTunes library. When I say family library, the family connection I am referring to was Dad's auto-saved credit card details. The click of a mouse could get an eighteen year old Clare any remix of soulja boy ever made. It was a flawless set-up. Unfortunately our 'helpful' neighbour 'kindly' offered to 'clean up' our desktop. In the process he 'accidentally' wiped all of everything. Consequently, as I have yet to recover sufficiently from the loss of such beautiful work to start the collection from scratch again, the only music I have is whatever was on my iPod that faithful afternoon.

I wasn't sure I trusted the eighteen year old me. Would my CD be so out of touch that I would be forever shamed in work? Would I have to start wearing flared jeans again to emphasis that 'my music is not dated, this is just how I roll.'? Actually, refreshingly enough, I  was completely taken by surprise by how cool I was back then. Every evening this month I have sat down with a cup of tea to carefully select the winning tracks for my masterpiece, and every evening the tea has gone completely cold while I get lost reliving my teenage years. The editing process was so difficult. Cutting Justin Timberlake was one of the most ruthless moves I've ever made.

Having listened to over 100 hours of  mostly quality but occasionally questionable music and selected the top 12 tracks, I became obsessed with getting them to 'flow.' I decided to go ahead and learn sheet music to better order my tunes. If you use YouTube tutorials, can you still claim to be self-taught? All the greats are self-taught. Being able to identify complimenting key changes is now top of my skills list for all future CVs. I heard over the weekend that a musically accomplished friend of a friend can readily identify what key air conditioning units are vibrating at. That's the dream.

Anyway my point is that old music can suck you right back to where you were when you used to listen to it. This exercise has forced me to reminisce and I've been on an emotional roller-coaster the past month doing so. I recommend you all root out an album from 2005 and cruise back to the good old times. On a completely unrelated note, I am selling some decks; about £400 quids worth. PM me for collection details.

Welcome to my kitchen.

I've always had a thing for baking. There's something humblingly restorative about losing yourself in the details of a recipe for hours on a cold Saturday afternoon in the depths of winter. I don't want to paint too wholesome a picture, as by 8:00 Saturday night, with the bottle of sherry mysteriously evaporated and only a questionably dry trifle to show for the afternoons work, quite a different scene springs to mind. Even so, the nature of baking is precise and unassuming. And ERR MA GOD, I look so fricken cute with a dash of flour in my hair. 

But one cannot survive on baked consumables alone. So when I was mercilessly turfed off to college and had to start fending for myself...that's a complete lie. In college I survived on individually packed portions of leftover Shepard's Pie from Mam's freezer, supplemented with Ben and Jerrys. In fact my scrounging was such that Dad felt it necessary to draw up detailed redecorating plans to include a checkout by the front door. To be truthful, I didn't bother with the whole 'being an adult' nonsense until I started working this year.

Cooking and baking are two entirely different kettles of fish though. No pun intended, no self-respecting chef would put fish in a kettle. When I bake I'm a charming person to be around. I float about the kitchen humming Beethoven or the Spice Girls. As with any amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I tend to match my musical accompaniment to the character of the recipe. It's all in the detail. I can instantly tell whether or not a fairy cake has been mistreated in it's past life. As an amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I just know. And, as an amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I am a pretty dab hand at savory bakes. So you'd imagine that that would translate readily into being fairly okay at cooking. Not so.

We will explore one particular attempt at cooking now by reviewing a transcript from my life, recorded one dark Sunday in November.

FADE IN:

INT. CLARE'S KITCHEN- LUNCH TIME

Pots and pans cover the counter tops. An apron clad (Cath Kidson, Christmas 2013) Clare stands in the center of the room, staring into the middle distance. The last four bars of Amhrán na bhFiann plays away in the background. On the final note, with the roar of the crowd in her ears, Clare squares up to the raw chicken sitting on top of the oven.                                                                                                                                             
                 CLARE
               (with steadfast resolve)
        Don't be looking at me like that, you divil you. I know the likes of you -sat there now thinking you're greash. Well you're not. 

Clare pokes the chicken with the end of a spatula. 

                 CLARE
               (continuing)
        Hard to imagine this birdy was flapping about some young lads yard not two days ago. I'd say she didn't see this coming at all, bless her.  Ah sure lookit. No point in getting all sentimental. She probably wasn't a very high achiever anyway. The elite ones are a yellowish colour after being corn fed or some such. This old bird looks no more elite than a pack of rich tea. A hard grafter, worked all her life putting food on the table for the childer, popping out eggs like there was no tomorrow. I'd say she loved a good gossip with the girls, sitting in on the eggs having the bants of a Tuesday morning. She kind of looks like a Norma maybe, or a Nancy. 

Clare puts on five pairs of surgical gloves, dubiously acquired from the hospital up the road. Nancy shifts ever so slightly on the chopping board, most probably just settling herself after being prodded with the spatula. But Clare eyes her suspiciously. She is never fully satisfied that lumps of meat are definitely dead until the smoke alarms in her hallway are going off. 

                CLARE
              (a steely determination creeping into her eyes)
       Well now Nancy, grand day isn't it? A touch dark out there now but it won't be long until there's a daycent stretch in the evenings again. I'll just turn you over there now, there's a good girl. 

Clare flips Nancy over by placing a roasting tin face down on top of her and catching her underside with the spatula. No touching necessary.

                NANCY
             (muffled)
        Ah here, will you be gentle. No bit of breeding in you at all.

               CLARE
             (turning a subtle shade paler)
        Sorry N-dogg, just got a bit over excited is all. 
       Now, you're probably not going to like this but I've been brushing up on my Darina Allen (not Rachel, shes only a blow in) and she recommends just throwing a lemon or two into your carcass. Sure you're probably feeling a bit out of sorts with the giblets all gone, are you? This should sort you right out. Hold on there now Nancy, I'll just roll the lemons on the counter, get the juices flowing, you know yourself sure. 

Clare reaches to move Nancy's leg out of the way with the spatula. Thank God for that spatula. She has half a lemon speared on the tip of her longest blade in the other hand. She swallows, bits down on her bottom lip and shoves the lemon forward to meet its demise. To her utter horror, the lemon refuses to give up without a fight and will not remove itself from the knife tip. In shock, she drops the handle of the knife, but when she sees it just hanging there where Nancy's head used to be she turns ashen and tears begin to leak from the corners of her eyes.

               CLARE
            (gagging)

        Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod

She drops the spatula,salmonella and all, in a fit of panic and takes a death grip of the knife handle with both hands. She lifts her right foot onto the counter and places it against the base of the roasting tin, kicking the whole contraption, Nancy and all, into the wall behind the oven. When the tin is firmly in place she jiggles the knife about a bit, but to no avail. The lemon has a hold of the knife tip like Rose should have been gripping Jack if she was any good at all.

            CLARE

           (almost shouting now)

      Nancy! Crikey, I didn't see this coming at all. Nancy, it's the knife, it's stuck. My my, this is some pickle. Except with no pickle... am I right?! Sorry. God Nancy, okay, I know what to do. Close you eyes there pet, this will be over in a second.

Clare raises the knife above her head and slams poor Nancy down into her tray. Nothing. She repeats the motion, this time with more power. Again, nothing. Clare is in full action mode now though, the theme tune from 'Bring it On' blaring in the background. She raises Nancy a third time and SLAM. There's a definite rhythm to it. Breath in, up, breath out, SLAM, breath in, up, breath out, SLAM... 

           CLARE

          (full on shouting)

        ALMOST GOT IT NANCY! LAST 10, DEFINITELY.

Slam, slam, slam, slam. Clare slides down the side of the counter to the ground with sweat rolling down her temples, triumphantly wielding the lemon free knife. Her moment of elation is rather short-lived though. Her face crumples as she sees that Nancy is looking a little worse for wear. (The realisation hasn't quite hit her yet but Nancy's second funeral will be closed casket, much to the dismay of all the girls from the hut.)

The kitchen looks like a crime scene. Clare is shaking at this point, adrenaline seeping from her bones at a rapid rate. She leans down on the home button of her iphone with her elbow.

           CLARE

          (subdued)

       Siri, call David Caruso. I'd say he'll be interested to see this. And Dominos. Ask for the usual.

END SCENE

Being sassy: Why you end up looking a bit of a twit.

I've been actively exercising my sassy streak for the past two weeks or so now. Let me just cut straight to the chase here, in true sassy style, and tell you that it hasn't gone very well for me. At all.

This whole rigmarole stemmed from my recent altercation with public speaking (see here for the full horror). In the days following the whole palava, a period I like to refer to as The Aftermath, I decided that my personality was simply too genteel to handle the passive aggressive stares of forty plus students. I went through a watered down version of the five stages of grief, albeit experiencing denial and anger rather more forcefully than acceptance. In fact I still haven't quite reached acceptance - rendering a student blind due to exuberant use of a laser pointer takes more than two weeks to come to terms with let me tell you. During this time of reflection though I did manage to devise a plan for future success. I decided that in order to conquer my demons I would need a serious attitude reform. Snap snap.

I decided that I was no longer going to sit back and allow life to just happen, meekly accepting whatever it threw my way. No, I was going to readjust my mindset, up my confidence levels, be more badass. I was going to go and grab life by the proverbials. (See last week I would have used a rather more descriptive expression here, but as I have reverted to my normal mode of operation I can't seem to type it without my cheeks turning an arresting shade of crimson.) I was going to weave the new 'tude into every aspect of my life. Full hardcore dedication.

I resolved that before embarking on my journey as Diva Devery I should spend one last evening researching in preparation. Ironically enough, sitting at my laptop with a cup of warm milk reading a WikiHow tutorial entitled 'Channeling your inner sass' is probably the least Beyoncé thing I've ever done. I came to the brazen conclusion that I would be better off just free-styling my way.

My first move was to go to bed without laying out my outfit for work the next morning. I had notions of rising at dawn to do some yoga type maneuvers. I would never claim to be doing actual yoga; just a yoga-esque routine. I only attempted actual yoga once. I had been informed about an hour before attending a class with a friend that normally yoga is performed without shoes or socks. In a fit of manic preparation I decided that my toes were probably too hairy to remove socks in public without some sort of license and so, in a vain spur of the moment effort, took a razor to them. I won't bother with the details, suffice it to say that I was politely asked to leave the class. Apparently bleeding profusely on a fancy rented mat isn't considered au fait in the yoga world. But, I digress.

I assumed that, feeling refreshed and faintly superior to the general public who don't rise at dawn to salute the sun, I would be in an optimum head-space to choose an outfit with both assurance and authority. Confident as Kanye. I envisioned myself picking killer pointed toe stilettos and some power suit type ensemble. I would colour in my eyebrows with a thick black permanent marker, as is apparently fashion forward? Obviously I would also lash on the red lipstick. Nothing screams sassy like sitting by an MRI scanner dressed like an extra on 'Sex and the City'. As I was fully committed I decided to take up smoking to complete the look. Unfortunately I slept through my alarm, hit the snooze button eleven times and got toothpaste in my hair. I wore black trousers, sensible shoes and a cardigan. And I was late for work because the cardigan was not laid out in its usual spot so I panicked and pulled every item of clothing I own out onto the floor.

Thoroughly disheartened by the second rate start to my new life, I decided to maybe try inject some oomph in the form of coffee. Making coffee in the staff room was, according to my expert opinion, a bit basic for a true diva so I spent some NHS time googling the local Starbucks. Armed with the number and my 'I own this' attitude, I rang up and got chatting to some grump who could have done with a double shot or two himself.  "We don't do delivery" he said. I considered asking if he knew who I was, but thought the better of it. I hadn't put in enough groundwork to pull that one. I did however explain that the coffee was a vital component of the new me and that it was imperative that it landed on my desk within the half hour. I added that I didn't care how exactly he carried this out. He responded with "I'm sorry, but we don't deliver. Try Dominos." I told him that he was rather unhelpful (as the WikiHow tutorial decreed that a filter is just for Instagram and one should speak one's mind at all times). He hung up.

Well obviously after this unadulterated ego bash, I was feeling wholly embarrassed. In a last ditch attempt to regain control of the situation I decided to try out my brand new sass walk. It's truly amazing how a little hip swinging can pump you right back up. As per usual I took it too far though, and now have some muscular strain injury niggling the left hip flexor. My online diagnosis indicates a grade 2 tear, which should be readily treatable with rest and proper care. However in 0.02% of cases there is evidence of it maturing into chronic necrosis with the necessary treatment being amputation. I translated this particular piece of convincing research from a Japanese medical journal published in 1992, so if any of you are considering pre-emptive amputation I would just maybe double check the translation. It seemed legit enough though. I've ordered a bottle of Holy Water from the Lourdes gift shop, just to be on the safe side.

By Friday, failing miserably at every turn, I decided to scale back my mission and simply download a Queen Latifa album instead.

I understand that this particular social experiment cannot be relied upon as a typical representation of a transformation from classy (just roll with it) to sassy. I spent the weekend gone by analysing my behavior patterns and have come to the conclusion that perhaps I am genetically predisposed to feeling permanently apologetic. Contact the Vatican for further details. Anyway, I can confirm that I am well and truly back in my box.

Public speaking - the Achilles' heel of physicists the world over.

Today I gave my first lecture. For an entire sixty minutes I was let loose on a group of unsuspecting students; free to rant, preach, brainwash, misinform, choreograph a flash mob, set up a Gospel Choir, whip out my Ouija board for an epic round of spirit connecting....the possibilities were endless. Although I'm not being entirely serious here, I will not deny that the desire to conduct a grief counselling session following Casey Braxton's passing instead of my prepared material was strong. The power was mine.

I walked into the seminar room before the students arrived to scope out the scene and was delighted to find that it was carpeted in red. Chance? No, they must have known I was coming. I was to speak from a raised platform, behind an Obama style wooden podium. I was given a laser pointer and a long wooden stick (presumably intended for highlighting parts of my slideshow and not for maintaining an obedient atmosphere). I had a floppy disk backup version of my presentation prepared, just in case, but was shocked to find that the computer provided was built circa 2002. The operating system was Windows XP - what a treat! My video clip played directly from PowerPoint by just clicking on it. I was apparently being saved the generally obligatory three minute digression where every .avi file known to man must be opened before the correct six second clip is located (What? How did you do that Clare?! I know, amazing right?). 

Impressed with the set-up and generally happy that I knew what I was going to say, that my slideshow was suitably hilarious and that no matter what questions I was asked I had a sufficient number of impacting but vague one liners stored away, I knew I was ready. I popped along to the staff room to grab a quick coffee so that I would be in top form for my Sermon. I was a little annoyed that I wasn't looking particularly sharp, due to an unfortunate mishap involving last years woolen Christmas jumper and my black work trousers and cardigan. I tried to resolve said situation with an industrial sized lint brush, but to no avail. Still though, instead of cruising in like Anna Wintour and instigating world domination, I hoped the slightly furry look would endear my audience and present a warm and open environment. There's always an angle.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to go. What a lovely day out there! I see blue sky. Might go for a run after work. Nine minutes. Oh, I've left over lasagna tonight. Nice one. Gosh, it's a little warm in here. Eight minutes. My my this coffee is certainly getting the job done. My heart rate! Seven minutes. I wonder if this is what Eminem feels like before a gig? Six minutes. Oh my God. I can't remember my cracking opening line. Five minutes. Seriously....what was it? It was golden, a total crowd pleaser. Four minutes. WHY DIDN'T I MAKE FLASH CARDS? Three minutes. I think there's a drop of the good stuff in my desk somewhere. Two minutes. Do I spell Clare with or without the 'i'? Clare definitely is my name. Right? Oh God. One minute. Does anyone know what would happen if one were to snort a sachet of lemsip? 

I entered the seminar room and was hit immediately by a wave of heat - that stuffy heat you get when a load of bodies are crammed into a smallish room. It was like a Fine Gael rally back in the day (2011 to be exact). Everyone was laughing and chatting with their friends. I power walked to the window, Killinaskully style, and made a decent attempt at opening it. It wasn't in a particularly compliant mood. I didn't know if it was a 'brute force' model or one of the 'fiddle with it a bit' types. I had been defeated by the window even though I knew all about the law of the lever. It was not a good day in the world of applied physics. By turning back to face the class, I knew I would be acknowledging my defeat. Should I just slut drop to distract them? No that won't end well Clare, you've already burst one pair of pants this year trying to follow a youtube video on sumo squats.

I caught the eye of one of the girls in the back row. Oh hell....do I know her? She looks so familiar. Does she go to my gym? Oh no wait, I think I've seen her in my local Tescos. Maybe she has a par-time job there? OH NO WAIT! Was I slamming jagerbombs with her last weekend? This is an unholy disaster.

...
I eventually made it to the podium and stammered through my introduction. The opener did come back to me, if you're asking! It took about fifteen minutes, but my voice did stop shaking. Half an hour in and my hands were dry enough again to pick up the laser pointer without electrocuting myself. I may have gone to far with the laser actually, it was like a David Guetta video in there by the forty-five minute mark. I think I managed to convey my message adequately. Well I double checked at the end and the guy I thought was crying actually looked like the type that would have moderate to severe allergies. So I'm assuming it went okay overall. I described my experience to a colleague afterwards and was told that 'practise makes perfect.' That's all well and good but is there a way of practicing without coming close to spontaneous combustion?

Disclaimer - by 'physicists the world over', I actually just mean me...and a bunch of guys that live under the ground in Switzerland. Go team.

Determined not to lose the cúpla focail

Seo mo chéad iarracht píosa a scríomh i nGaeilge ó 2008 agus mé ag staidear le hadhaigh an Ardteiste. That sentence is after taking me the bones of five minutes and three trips over to Google translate to sort out. And even with that ferocious effort, I still wouldn't be confident of it standing up to any scrutiny. I've lapsed into English already I see....this post was meant to be as Gaeilge. Caithfidh mé níos mó iarracht a dhéanamh. Maybe I'll do that thing the cool kids do where I lapse into Gaeilge i gcomhair cúpla specifically chosen impact focail and then carry on in English like nothing happened.

It's such a shame old habits have to abate so that there can be room for new ventures. The diehard part of me is in denial....but realistically no one can juggle na leithróidí go léir. So now instead of watching Rós na Rún and the TG4 version of blind date (think cups of tea, Aran knits and road frontage), I actively spend time scrolling through Twitter and snapchatting pictures of my feet stretched in front of the TV with a chilled glass of white/ the bar I just squatted....audience depending. I am every woman. These activities have their place, I've no doubt that without expressing my outrage at Casey Braxton's untimely death in 'Home and Away' on twitter, my life would be somewhat less meaningful. Anyway my point is unclear - I'm annoyed that I'm losing my Irish! That's your take home information from this paragraph. Although if anyone wants to write to Channel Five with me and contest Casey's death that would be much appreciated. Tá neart i líon.

I went to a Gaelscoil primary school, so for me Irish has always been there. When I started secondary school I was way behind in Maths class because I would have to translate everything the teacher was telling me to Irish, ansin suí síos agus obair trí an fhadhb as Gaeilge, then translate my result back to English before submitting. What a slog. But then Irish class was a breeze so I guess it all panned out. Until I was 13 it was a way of life, then through secondary school it was a useful tool. After that things got blurry. I tried to hold onto it in college- I joined trad soc and Irish soc and although I was fully involved in both, things still began to slide. My two hours a week of dedication to the cause got overshadowed in the unrelenting tide of social gatherings, stacks of notes, tins of tuna and general insanity that is an undergrad.

To further hinder my mission, upon graduating I moved to the UK. Not even across the pond; just across a decent sized puddle really. Ryanair can get me home in less than an hour. Albeit grudgingly... and with only one spare tee-shirt mashed into my handbag. And while we're on the topic - why is the in flight magazine a thing? No one needs that in their lives. Or sky lottery. Or gin in a condom wrapper. And groups on a stag/hen do should not be allowed sit with their buddies. The Fields of Athenry is a solid tune, but not on repeat and as far as I am aware there are no key changes in that song? And it doesn't count as an 'on time' flight if you have deviously allocated 40 minutes longer than the necessary air time just so you can play the nations favorite jingle. Apologies, I'm done. 

Although I'm not far away, there are subtle but drastic differences between being here and being in Ireland. Providing a 24 hour running commentary on the weather doesn't go down quite as well as at home let me tell you. And when your boss asks how things are going, 'flat out like a badger on the bypass' is not an appropriate response. When it's 3:00 am and you're tearing up and down the main street with mascara in every crevice shouting about needing a Supermacs (AN DTUIGEANN TÚ???) no one will be able to help. You'll end up at one of those multi-genre take aways that flog kebabs, pizzas, fish'n'chips AND curry? Make up your mind. Pick one and do it right lads. You'll wake up the next morning with falafel in your hair and no one will be at you to get up and ready for Mass. Consequently you won't rise until at least dinner time and the day will be gone. I've had to learn these things the hard way. There was a period of adjustment. I like to think I've integrated rather well,
all things considered. Once you get in on the new dynamic it's not all that bad. However; saying 'Conás atá?' and getting a blank stare is something I will never get used to. 

All the Irish people living abroad that I've spoken to seem to share a similar heightened notion of Irishness. And you know it's so easy to weed out the Irish - aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile. I meet a new person from home almost every weekend. Every time I'm asked where I'm from and I say Ireland, I can't help but smile. It's more than just a fleeting sense of satisfaction. It's a love for my country that runs deep - pride in our history, culture, traditions and people. I read the Irish Times online every morning and am baffled by how difficult the Irish find it to implement systems. My current sources of entertainment are Eircode and Irish Water. We can never seem to get things right the first go. But having said that, running parallel alongside thoughts of frustration and  sometimes almost embarrassment, I always feel a sense of comfort. Yes we have no idea what we're doing, but we're all in it together and sure it'll be grand. All the day-to-day struggles of our country play out on a stage with a constant backdrop of the tricolour. 

These things are important to me. Seeing the hurling on Sky Sports was one of the highlights of this year. I was lucky enough to nab a ticket to the replay of the final, it was a fantastic occasion. So much passion. The speed of the game, the roar of the crowd, the happy faces all around. The whole thing was exhilarating. I went to a céilí afterwards. Overkill? Maybe. But sure might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. It was a great day.

But great as all these things are, Gaeilge is by far my strongest and quickest link to home. I have one of those internet radios (serious piece of stuff), and so I can tune into radio na gaeltachta whenever I please for a few tunes or the news. Whatever is going really. It's a beautiful language and although it pains me to admit that for at least 50% of the time I've no idea for the life of me what's being said, it's always a pleasure to sit back and let the curious ups and downs of it wash over me. It makes me feel connected, and that is certainly a powerful thing.

Tá an teanga beo agus tá dualgas orainn go léir iarracht a dheanamh chun an stádas sin a choiméad. Níl mé sasta suí siar agus mo cupla focail a chailleadh. Sa todhchaí beidh mé ag leabhart Gaeilge le gach duine a bhfuil an t-am acu éist liom. I mo thuairim, níl aon rud amháin chomh tábhachtach is an teanga seo agus an áit specialta atá aici sa todhchaí...in ár todhchaí. Bo bhreá liom í á leabhart gach uile lá, ach níl sin réasúnta anseo san Albain. Tá mé ag rabhadh mo theaghlach anois bheith réidh mas smaoiníonn aon duine acu glaoch a cuir orm. Beidh mé ag feitheamh anseo le mo foclóir reidh!