etiquette, manners and profits

Have you noticed how people look askance when you open a door for someone, male or female; say 'please' and 'thank you' to strangers or even pause and hesitate in consideration of how one's actions might affect another? Do you stand, chatting, with a couple of friends, in the middle of a footpath?
How many times, in a busy working day, do you wish footpaths had traffic lanes, that there were slow lanes for tourists and day trippers and right and left lanes for oncoming pedestrians?

Your thoughts are on your purpose, its important and essential nature and you seethe at the apparent disregard of others.
I remember a time when people left their front door keys in the lock, milk was left in glass bottles on your doorstep and church doors weren't padlocked.
Nowadays, it is common practice to 'demand', without 'asking' and some people will even click their fingers or whistle to get attention.
When did we lose respect for ourselves and each other? Why do we get angry at beggars for begging? Most of the time, they are misfortunates who have fallen through the cracks through illness or by their own misdeeds, so what harm or injury can they do us?
We had a little book of etiquette, we studied in school. It showed us how to behave, socially; which fork or spoon to use at the dinner table and how to address people of importance and standing.
It didn't teach us respect. We learned that from our parents and other figures of authority in our lives.
So what went wrong? The answer could be very difficult and complex. It could also be very simple. Greed and the all prevailing imperative of profit is what has brought us to this sorry state.
When we've abdicated our respect for our own environment, the air we breathe, the land we farm, the waters we fish, then we've lost respect for ourselves.
Take a bit of time, soon. Go to a farmers' market with no preconceived notions of hippies in wellies chewing rubbery tofu. Everyone talks to each other. They remember you. They discuss the quality of their radishes. It will give you hope.

the whys and wherefores of writing

I bought a collection of short stories last night by the American writer, James Lee Burke. It was the last of Mr Burke's books, to complete my collection. It's called The Convict and Other Stories. In his Introduction: Jailhouses, English Departments and the Electric Chair, he writes about his own experience as a writer; the rejections, the defiance, the drinking, the teaching and then his inability to learn.
James Lee Burke is not only one of the most successful detective crime writers alive today, he's also one of the best living American writers. His powers of description are breathtaking and he can stop you breathing with the emotion of a moment. He stands with John Steinbeck and Kurt Vonnegut Jr as my all time, favourite American authors.
I've learned from all three of these writers and many more. One of the first lesson any writer learns, is to become a reader, then, an observer. Sometimes, after reading someone like Burke, I'd begin to think there was nothing I could write about to match someone like him. Louisiana, Texas and Montana - his favoured locations - just seemed to have that much more going for them. John Steinbeck wrote about hobos and the dust trail from the Texas panhandle to the Californian fruit fields, migrant workers and underground agitators. Kurt Vonnegut wrote about soldiers and aliens. Desperation set in if I thought about my own paltry settings.
Then I realized I wasn't looking at things from the right angle. I could say James Joyce taught me that, but I won't. I've read big chunks of Ulysses and the short story collection, Dubliners. But it took me four weeks to get through 15 pages of Ulysses on my first attempt. Brendan Behan and Sean O'Casey taught me a valuable lesson. Stories are not just on your doorstep; they're in your head. You have to get them out. I've got more pleasure out of reading John McGahern, William Trevor, Sebastien Barry and Joe O'Connor. These are writers who understand scene and setting. Roddy Doyle has the same talent.
Reading can satisfy writers, but it also makes them restless. Restless, to get their own words and thoughts down in print. And that makes the difference between a reader and a writer. Every reader will entertain the thought of being better and more able than a writer, to capture the moment of their lives that encapsulates their thought processes and sums up their existence. It is the writer who writes it.

Clams and prawns

I went out looking for some fish today, not because it's Friday but because I like eating fish. I got a fish I'd never heard of in my local fishmonger yesterday. It was called a tilapia and the fillets had a reddish hue and were quite firm. The fishmonger said they were firmer and sharper flavoured than a lemon sole. He was right and at €1 a fillet, it was not just delicious, it was good value, too. I had to google the tilapia, of course, and I found out it was the most farmed fish in the United States and the fifth most important species of farmed fish, globally.
Is it my imagination or are there more people eating fresh fish these days? The Irish have always made a big deal about being surrounded by fish but we never appear to consume as much as we could, and should. Cod, haddock, ray and salmon will always have their enthusiasts but now, they've been joined by mackerel, sole, tilapia, squid, sea bream and bass. You can even buy fresh tuna, sardines and swordfish these days, in most good fishmongers.
And it's not just foreign travel or gourmet tv shows that are widening our horizons. There are plenty of good Chinese supermarkets in Dublin now and their fresh fish sections are expanding. This morning there were razor clams, fresh prawns, soft shell crabs, red gurnard, snails and sea bass on sale.
Improvements and commercial imperatives have brought massive changes in fishing, too. Nowadays, trawlers are like floating factories and fish arrives ashore these days, dressed, filleted and even cooked. That certainly appears to be the condition of the North Atlantic prawn these days. I've been trying to source the juicy little devils, unshelled, cooked and frozen but so far, I've only succeeded to find them shelled, cooked and frozen. Until, of course, I went into my local Chinese supermarket and there they were, all pink and lovely and ready to be eaten. So what else did I get on my travels? A handful of clams, just enough for some tomato clam sauce and spaghetti with just a hint of chilli. Better get cooking...

Self publishing...not a natural state

All this self publishing malarkey is going against the grain, in a strange way. First, I've never been a joiner. I played football in college but I never joined the debating groups, the chess club or the drama society. I didn't mind supporting things, going on the odd march or engaging in stimulating debate over a couple of pints. But I drew the line at signing on the dotted line.
Which is why self publishing and all that goes with it, doesn't sit well with me.
First, you have to get your twitter on. Then you have to have a blog and a website, not to mention the Facebook page and maybe a YouTube account. And then there are the specialist clubs, the writing forums and the facilitators you must engage to get things done for you.
I've always been a loner, as much out of circumstance as inclination. As a journalist, I worked as a freelance for many years and later, when I worked for a newspaper, the job I did was largely left in my own hand.
Joining clubs implies compromise, in some way; certainly, accommodation. The best writing club I've joined is Splinter4All, a party of like minded souls in a mutually supportive writers' forum. Unfortunately, most of them are personal friends; their critique can be indiscriminate and inadvertently patronizing. But of all the writers' groups I've joined; Red Room, Writing4All, Writing.ie or writing.com; Splinter4All remains the best.
Clubs are, by their very nature, well, clubs. People 'club' together and become cliques. Participation is essential to survive and not be shunned but participation can imply compromise too.
I need to get it about that I've written and published a book of short stories, available to anyone with a laptop, tablet or smartphone, who can afford the price of a cup of coffee.
I believe in the power of the word and 'word of mouth' is how, I hope, to get my book about. Everyone reads. I just want them to take half an hour to read me.
http://dermotthayes.com/dermotthayes.com/The_Story.html
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/137450
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007CK9LY2/ref=r_soa_s_i...BE 

Old friends

I always loved that Simon & Garfunkel song, Old Friends. I think it had another name, too, a forward slash '/' Bookends. It evoked the sounds and sights of an Autumn evening, sitting on a park bench. 'Old friends, sat on a park bench like bookends.' It's a sad song but there's also a great degree of comfort, too. They're comfortable in their friendship and that's the value of old friends; you can trust them. I ran into Keith Duffy last night just as I got off work. I've known Keith since Boyzone's first 'public' appearance, a sort of showcase, in PoD, back in the early '90s. He went on to become a very famous pop star; then a tv soap star in Corrie and an accomplished athlete, completing triathlons and Iron Man competitions with distinction and raising substantial sums of money and awareness for his charity, Irish Autism Action. This year, he has plans to compete in three marathons, attempt a world record cycle from Mizen Head to Malin Head and another six day cycle around Ireland with a bunch of his pals from Manchester United. Even more impressively, Keith has just completed a five month stint touring Ireland in Druid Theatre's production of John B. Keane's classic Big Maggie. The man has earned his bones, so to speak. But more importantly, he remains an 'old friend,' without changing and always someone you can trust and in who's company, I will always feel comfortable. So here's to you, Keith...