Ireland Day Three
DAY THREE
COTTAGE : 10am
The first glimmer of light of the new day broke through the curtains of our bedroom at around 5am in the morning. We know that because at that time we had been woken by the sound of Pepsi getting ready to be sick again. We quickly let her out into the yard where she dry heaved before coming back in and slumping rather pitifully on her cushion. My wife had decided to let Cookie out to do her morning ablutions and during the time we were checking on the welfare of Pepsi, we had forgotten to keep an eye on the Yorkie, who was now nowhere to be seen. Throwing on a coat over her pyjama’s and sliding on her flip-flops, my wife ventured out into the weak morning sunlight to find out where the little terrier had disappeared to. She walked down to the foot of the garden before catching sight of Cookie, who was merrily racing along the beach having a rather fantastic time of it.
My wife believes that when people are in bed, it is possible to shout at the dogs by whispering at them as loudly as possible, through gritted teeth. If somebody knocks on our front door after the children have been put to bed and are fast asleep, the dogs usually respond by barking rather loudly. Rather than tell them to shut up once loudly (which usually does the trick), my wife instead loudly whispers “Quiet! Shush! Hush!” at the dogs in increasingly loud whispers to try and get them to shut up. Quite why Katharine does this strange behaviour, being a clever, sensible and intelligent woman, is quite beyond me, but then again I can’t easily defend her sanity, she did after all marry me.
I was therefore treated to the sight of Katharine, resplendent in overcoat, flip flops and pyjama’s whispering as loudly as possible for Cookie to come in from the beach, as the wind whistled across the sand and the dog remained totally oblivious to her callings. Indeed it was only when Katharine went down onto the beach to get her that she realised that she was being called, and upon recognising the fact, decided it would be a fun game to get Katharine to chase her along the beach. I’m sure this was not something Katharine was looking forward to doing on her relaxing holiday, chasing a sandy faced, mischievious Yorkshire terrier around the beach in your pyjamas at 5am in the morning. After some gentle coercion, bribery and the threat of having Katharine’s foot hoofed up her arse, Cookie decided that perhaps she’d better come in after all and Katharine grabbed her and carted her inside somewhat unceremoniously.
Neither of us really fell back to sleep after the little beach incident. Pepsi being sick again had surprised us a little. Normally if she is ill, she is ill for a couple of hours and by the morning is right as rain. However today she looked miserable. Her eyes lacked any real spark, her nose was warm and dry and she was unusually listless. Even though she is 10 years old, Pepsi has the look and demeanour of a dog far younger than that and she will happily race around the park chasing a toy or a ball for hours on end. The ‘Dog Whisperer’, Cesar Milan, would no doubt call this her ‘herding instinct’, but we think she just likes fetching things and is borderline OCD because of it.
The only real clue to Pepsi’s real age is when she gets home and falls asleep; when she awakes and tries to get up and you can almost hear her joints creak a little when she tries to stand. This morning however she looked her age and much worse. She was no longer being sick, she couldn’t really as she hadn’t eaten anything in the past 24 hours, but she was dry retching, had little interest in doing anything other than sleeping and it wasn’t particularly pleasant to see.
However it hadn’t been 24 hours since she started to be ill, so I said we’d give her today and see how she went. We didn’t really have a choice as all the veterinary surgeries would be closed as the Monday was a bank holiday and had we taken her to an emergency vet (which we would have done if things had got any worse), then I would have surely had to sell a child or two in order to afford any treatment or medication that would have followed. So every cloud has a silver lining.
Today was also the day of the Championship play-off final between Burnley and Sheffield United and Jon had expressed an interest in visiting one of the pubs in the centre of Clifden in order to watch it. My sister and parents were all in favour too and my wife had said that she’d like to take the children to the shops in Clifden. The reason for this was that they had all been given a little holiday spending money and from the moment we had got there, we had been constantly nagged by them to take them somewhere sufficiently replete in god-awful tat, to spend it.
We had tried to dissuade them from spending it immediately, but my children are no fools and they knew that should they spend their last penny, they’d just have to make doe eyes at Nanny and Grandad or Uncle Ian to be given some more. Katharine said she’d wander around the shops with the kids before joining up with Jon, Alex and Mum and Dad a little later and Ian had decided he would wander around the shops with her. Originally we were all planning to go, but I didn’t think it was fair on Pepsi, or a wise idea for the inside of the car, to force the dogs into the boot for a journey into Clifden, so I opted to stay and write some of the articles I needed to get done whilst I was away. Kris wasn’t too enamoured of the idea of shopping or sitting in a bar so he asked if he could stay with me to look after the dogs.
My sister was particularly keen to attend the game because she is an ardent fan of the Irish footballer Alan Mahon, who was with Burnley at the time. She has had a crush on him since she was a young girl when he has the misfortune of being signed by Tranmere Rovers. On her 14th birthday a friend actually managed a chance for her to meet him, unknown to her, following a game at Prenton Park. She almost fainted and since then she has been his biggest fan/scariest stalker (delete as appropriate). My mum and dad were keen to try a local tipple or two and Jon hadn’t seen a live game of football for two days and was having withdrawal symptoms, so it made good sense for them to head off to a bar in Clifden to take in the game.
At the Cottage, the sun had come out and while the biting wind remained, I noted that when I went out into the back yard where the garden furniture stood, that the house shielded this area from the worst of the wind. It was rather pleasant sat in the sunshine in just my t-shirt and so I brought my laptop outside to begin writing. The dogs soon joined me sunbathing as I typed and Kris meanwhile fought the minions of darkness on a Wii game in the living room. I sat with a cool drink and felt quite at home, I’d have happily made the place my office if we could have guaranteed the weather, and if my my dog wasn’t barfing copiously all over the patio every hour or so.
A couple of articles, lots of dog puke and one cool beer later and the intrepid explorers returned home from Clifden with the news that Burnley had made the Premiership, Alex had hyperventilated because she’d caught glimpse of Alan Mahon sat, in his usual place, on the substitutes bench. My mum, dad were busily praising any deity that they could think of after discovering that not all bars in Ireland were of the same standard as the one they’d visited on their trip over from Dun Laoghaire on Saturday and Ian was busy telling me that the Guinness at home tastes nothing like the Guinness here in Ireland, although he was unable to quantify just how it tastes different. “It just does” he said earnestly. It is something to do with Liffey water apparently.
I don’t drink the stuff, but I shall keep that knowledge stored for future reference.
COTTAGE 8pm
After tea I decided to wander down to the beach with my fishing rod. Kris and my dad had already made the short trek down to the waterfront and had cast in. The tidal range on the beach wasn’t particularly large and it made for easy fishing as you could follow the tide in or out and fish at low or high water, or so we thought and with visions of huge headed pollock, mackerel and codling lying in wait for our tasty imitation bait, we flung our lines into the sea beyond the third wave and waited for the tell tale tug on the line to signify a fish on.
I readily confess that fishing does polarise opinion somewhat. There are a great many who enjoy angling, be it sea, game or course and it remains the most popular participation sport in the country. However there are an equal number of people who see throwing some nylon line into water with a hook and some bait on the end, waiting for a fish to bite as being the most pointless and futile exercise since Jeffrey Archer took lessons on how to be popular and charismatic. Angling’s fervent critics would have had a field day on this evening as the three of us struggled manfully against nature, climate and the laws of probability and physics in an attempt to catch a fish only to discover that it was an exercise in futility.
The first issue we all noted was that our secluded cove was very rocky. This meant that we had to fish in between the rocky outcrops, many of which would only become visible as the tide receded. This caused a problem for Kris almost immediately as he cast his weight just beyond a submerged collection of rocks and boulders and when he tried to reel in, his line became snagged and eventually broke, causing him to lose all his terminal tackle (for the lay person, or the completely disinterested in angling, that is his hook, weight and anything else at the end of the line that has the sole purpose of getting your bait onto the floor to try and catch the fish). Somewhat disconsolate, for it was only his second cast, Kris trudged back to the house to set his rod up again.
My Dad was fishing just to the left of Kris nearer to the jutting peninsular of rocky land that crept out into the bay. Fishing is, perhaps, too kind a word to describe what he was doing. He was finding it almost impossible to cast into clear water and then get his weight and bait to remain in one place. Although the sea looked calm on the surface, beneath it there were eddies and currents that would drag the line, weight and tackle all over the place. Worse than that however, was the fact that these very same forces would tear up tonnes of seaweed from the seabed and quickly entangle it around your line and tackle, rendering it then useless for catching anything other than more seaweed. Time and time again my dad cast out to different spots, only to have to reel the line in almost immediately as it was covered in seaweed. His frustration wasn’t helped any by Kris trudging back from the house asking him if he would help come and set up his sea fishing gear again as he had not set up a sea fishing rod before and only knew how to set up a course fishing rod.
As they both walked back towards the house I was getting ready to make my first cast of the evening. A lack of space in the car had forced me to bring my telescopic course fishing rod with me and it felt somewhat flimsy in my hands against what looked like a very powerful sea. I’d loaded my reel with the heaviest line I had available, which was 10lb, and I’d rigged to that a pre-made rig which was particularly suited to fishing a tidal beach with a mainly sandy bottom.
Onto the hooks I had loaded what I hoped looked like rag worm, but which were in fact imitation baits that my dad had brought back with him from Florida. They didn’t look all that appealing to me, although the label on the cover made extravagant claims about fish loving them. I couldn’t see the attraction myself, but then again I don’t eat worms, flies or maggots on a daily basis. I knew that I’d need a huge weight to hold bottom in the tide and I’d decided that to try and do so with the rod I had was futile, the weight i needed would snap the rod like a twig as I cast, so I had brought my heaviest course fishing weight with me and attached it to the rig. This would mean that the whole rig would dance about on the floor of the ocean and make detecting bites more difficult; however I had fished this way in Ireland previously and had limited success. A fish snapping up your lure feels very different to the line simply being bobbed up and down in the current, so I was confident I would know when a fish had taken the bait.
I painstakingly readied the rod and line, put on my rig and weight, checked the bait was sitting on the hooks correctly, slid the bail arm back and held the line. I walked down to the water’s edge, regretting now that I hadn’t put my flip flops and shorts on so I could at least wade a little into the surf and I brought my rod back slowly and then quickly accelerated it forward in a perfect arc, sending the bait high over my head out towards the sea beyond the third wave.
Crack!
I knew that sound wasn’t good. I looked at my rod and it seemed fine. Didn’t it? I checked by the reel and worked my way up. It all looked ok and my bafflement at what the noise was lasted about 3 more seconds before I realised that what was left of my rod appeared in perfect working order. Sadly for me however, the top section of the rod had snapped off violently as I cast and had flown along with the line and weight into the sea. Cursing, I started to reel the line back in. Already it was covered in a liberal coating of seaweed and it wasn’t long before I came across the snapped top section of my rod, which had been busy on its unexpected break for freedom, seemingly collecting half a ton of seaweed around itself in some misguided attempt at camouflage.
Usually in such circumstances, a fisherman will tut and smile realising that the hand of fate had dealt them unkind cards on this occasion. They will gently disassemble their tackle, free the broken item from the line and painstakingly consider whether a repair can be made or whether the rod should officially be sent to the great fisherman in the sky for a kindly and respectful disposal. I took a different tack however, and in a fit of pique attacked the broken piece of rod with a set of fishing pliers, snapping the carbon fibre away from the line initially and then trying to snap my way through the eyes that were still attached to the line. Finding these a little tough to break through even with the pliers, especially while running the risk of snapping the line, I swore again and decided that this would have to do. I stripped the seaweed from the line and flung it out again.
That same action was replicated by the three of us for the best part of an hour and yet the only thing we found on our baits attracted was seaweed. Time and time again we’d cast in, reel in and barely seconds later the line would be covered in a thick green, almost gelatinous goo. With our patience now at breaking point and the beach surrounding us strewn with seaweed that we had liberated from the sea, we decided to call it a night. The Rossadillisk seas had been too tough for my humble telescopic rod and we quickly came to the conclusion, over a warming cup of tea back at the cottage, that as picturesque and perfect for fishing as the bay looked, without specialist local knowledge, we had more chance of catching a dyslexic yeti scuba-diving than any local fish.
Upon our return to the cottage we were all a little perturbed to see that Pepsi still was no better. Listless, miserable and still retching, she had been drinking water but seemed unable to even keep that down. This and the comparative good health of Cookie made us wonder if there was something unusual behind this. We decided that unless she showed signs of significant improvement in the morning, a trip to the vets would be in order. I just wondered, given the expensive nature of almost everything thus far on our “cheap week away”, how much this little visit would cost.
In addition to my bank manager, I added the Samaritans to my mobile’s speed dial.
COTTAGE : 10am
The first glimmer of light of the new day broke through the curtains of our bedroom at around 5am in the morning. We know that because at that time we had been woken by the sound of Pepsi getting ready to be sick again. We quickly let her out into the yard where she dry heaved before coming back in and slumping rather pitifully on her cushion. My wife had decided to let Cookie out to do her morning ablutions and during the time we were checking on the welfare of Pepsi, we had forgotten to keep an eye on the Yorkie, who was now nowhere to be seen. Throwing on a coat over her pyjama’s and sliding on her flip-flops, my wife ventured out into the weak morning sunlight to find out where the little terrier had disappeared to. She walked down to the foot of the garden before catching sight of Cookie, who was merrily racing along the beach having a rather fantastic time of it.
My wife believes that when people are in bed, it is possible to shout at the dogs by whispering at them as loudly as possible, through gritted teeth. If somebody knocks on our front door after the children have been put to bed and are fast asleep, the dogs usually respond by barking rather loudly. Rather than tell them to shut up once loudly (which usually does the trick), my wife instead loudly whispers “Quiet! Shush! Hush!” at the dogs in increasingly loud whispers to try and get them to shut up. Quite why Katharine does this strange behaviour, being a clever, sensible and intelligent woman, is quite beyond me, but then again I can’t easily defend her sanity, she did after all marry me.
I was therefore treated to the sight of Katharine, resplendent in overcoat, flip flops and pyjama’s whispering as loudly as possible for Cookie to come in from the beach, as the wind whistled across the sand and the dog remained totally oblivious to her callings. Indeed it was only when Katharine went down onto the beach to get her that she realised that she was being called, and upon recognising the fact, decided it would be a fun game to get Katharine to chase her along the beach. I’m sure this was not something Katharine was looking forward to doing on her relaxing holiday, chasing a sandy faced, mischievious Yorkshire terrier around the beach in your pyjamas at 5am in the morning. After some gentle coercion, bribery and the threat of having Katharine’s foot hoofed up her arse, Cookie decided that perhaps she’d better come in after all and Katharine grabbed her and carted her inside somewhat unceremoniously.
Neither of us really fell back to sleep after the little beach incident. Pepsi being sick again had surprised us a little. Normally if she is ill, she is ill for a couple of hours and by the morning is right as rain. However today she looked miserable. Her eyes lacked any real spark, her nose was warm and dry and she was unusually listless. Even though she is 10 years old, Pepsi has the look and demeanour of a dog far younger than that and she will happily race around the park chasing a toy or a ball for hours on end. The ‘Dog Whisperer’, Cesar Milan, would no doubt call this her ‘herding instinct’, but we think she just likes fetching things and is borderline OCD because of it.
The only real clue to Pepsi’s real age is when she gets home and falls asleep; when she awakes and tries to get up and you can almost hear her joints creak a little when she tries to stand. This morning however she looked her age and much worse. She was no longer being sick, she couldn’t really as she hadn’t eaten anything in the past 24 hours, but she was dry retching, had little interest in doing anything other than sleeping and it wasn’t particularly pleasant to see.
However it hadn’t been 24 hours since she started to be ill, so I said we’d give her today and see how she went. We didn’t really have a choice as all the veterinary surgeries would be closed as the Monday was a bank holiday and had we taken her to an emergency vet (which we would have done if things had got any worse), then I would have surely had to sell a child or two in order to afford any treatment or medication that would have followed. So every cloud has a silver lining.
Today was also the day of the Championship play-off final between Burnley and Sheffield United and Jon had expressed an interest in visiting one of the pubs in the centre of Clifden in order to watch it. My sister and parents were all in favour too and my wife had said that she’d like to take the children to the shops in Clifden. The reason for this was that they had all been given a little holiday spending money and from the moment we had got there, we had been constantly nagged by them to take them somewhere sufficiently replete in god-awful tat, to spend it.
We had tried to dissuade them from spending it immediately, but my children are no fools and they knew that should they spend their last penny, they’d just have to make doe eyes at Nanny and Grandad or Uncle Ian to be given some more. Katharine said she’d wander around the shops with the kids before joining up with Jon, Alex and Mum and Dad a little later and Ian had decided he would wander around the shops with her. Originally we were all planning to go, but I didn’t think it was fair on Pepsi, or a wise idea for the inside of the car, to force the dogs into the boot for a journey into Clifden, so I opted to stay and write some of the articles I needed to get done whilst I was away. Kris wasn’t too enamoured of the idea of shopping or sitting in a bar so he asked if he could stay with me to look after the dogs.
My sister was particularly keen to attend the game because she is an ardent fan of the Irish footballer Alan Mahon, who was with Burnley at the time. She has had a crush on him since she was a young girl when he has the misfortune of being signed by Tranmere Rovers. On her 14th birthday a friend actually managed a chance for her to meet him, unknown to her, following a game at Prenton Park. She almost fainted and since then she has been his biggest fan/scariest stalker (delete as appropriate). My mum and dad were keen to try a local tipple or two and Jon hadn’t seen a live game of football for two days and was having withdrawal symptoms, so it made good sense for them to head off to a bar in Clifden to take in the game.
At the Cottage, the sun had come out and while the biting wind remained, I noted that when I went out into the back yard where the garden furniture stood, that the house shielded this area from the worst of the wind. It was rather pleasant sat in the sunshine in just my t-shirt and so I brought my laptop outside to begin writing. The dogs soon joined me sunbathing as I typed and Kris meanwhile fought the minions of darkness on a Wii game in the living room. I sat with a cool drink and felt quite at home, I’d have happily made the place my office if we could have guaranteed the weather, and if my my dog wasn’t barfing copiously all over the patio every hour or so.
A couple of articles, lots of dog puke and one cool beer later and the intrepid explorers returned home from Clifden with the news that Burnley had made the Premiership, Alex had hyperventilated because she’d caught glimpse of Alan Mahon sat, in his usual place, on the substitutes bench. My mum, dad were busily praising any deity that they could think of after discovering that not all bars in Ireland were of the same standard as the one they’d visited on their trip over from Dun Laoghaire on Saturday and Ian was busy telling me that the Guinness at home tastes nothing like the Guinness here in Ireland, although he was unable to quantify just how it tastes different. “It just does” he said earnestly. It is something to do with Liffey water apparently.
I don’t drink the stuff, but I shall keep that knowledge stored for future reference.
COTTAGE 8pm
After tea I decided to wander down to the beach with my fishing rod. Kris and my dad had already made the short trek down to the waterfront and had cast in. The tidal range on the beach wasn’t particularly large and it made for easy fishing as you could follow the tide in or out and fish at low or high water, or so we thought and with visions of huge headed pollock, mackerel and codling lying in wait for our tasty imitation bait, we flung our lines into the sea beyond the third wave and waited for the tell tale tug on the line to signify a fish on.
I readily confess that fishing does polarise opinion somewhat. There are a great many who enjoy angling, be it sea, game or course and it remains the most popular participation sport in the country. However there are an equal number of people who see throwing some nylon line into water with a hook and some bait on the end, waiting for a fish to bite as being the most pointless and futile exercise since Jeffrey Archer took lessons on how to be popular and charismatic. Angling’s fervent critics would have had a field day on this evening as the three of us struggled manfully against nature, climate and the laws of probability and physics in an attempt to catch a fish only to discover that it was an exercise in futility.
The first issue we all noted was that our secluded cove was very rocky. This meant that we had to fish in between the rocky outcrops, many of which would only become visible as the tide receded. This caused a problem for Kris almost immediately as he cast his weight just beyond a submerged collection of rocks and boulders and when he tried to reel in, his line became snagged and eventually broke, causing him to lose all his terminal tackle (for the lay person, or the completely disinterested in angling, that is his hook, weight and anything else at the end of the line that has the sole purpose of getting your bait onto the floor to try and catch the fish). Somewhat disconsolate, for it was only his second cast, Kris trudged back to the house to set his rod up again.
My Dad was fishing just to the left of Kris nearer to the jutting peninsular of rocky land that crept out into the bay. Fishing is, perhaps, too kind a word to describe what he was doing. He was finding it almost impossible to cast into clear water and then get his weight and bait to remain in one place. Although the sea looked calm on the surface, beneath it there were eddies and currents that would drag the line, weight and tackle all over the place. Worse than that however, was the fact that these very same forces would tear up tonnes of seaweed from the seabed and quickly entangle it around your line and tackle, rendering it then useless for catching anything other than more seaweed. Time and time again my dad cast out to different spots, only to have to reel the line in almost immediately as it was covered in seaweed. His frustration wasn’t helped any by Kris trudging back from the house asking him if he would help come and set up his sea fishing gear again as he had not set up a sea fishing rod before and only knew how to set up a course fishing rod.
As they both walked back towards the house I was getting ready to make my first cast of the evening. A lack of space in the car had forced me to bring my telescopic course fishing rod with me and it felt somewhat flimsy in my hands against what looked like a very powerful sea. I’d loaded my reel with the heaviest line I had available, which was 10lb, and I’d rigged to that a pre-made rig which was particularly suited to fishing a tidal beach with a mainly sandy bottom.
Onto the hooks I had loaded what I hoped looked like rag worm, but which were in fact imitation baits that my dad had brought back with him from Florida. They didn’t look all that appealing to me, although the label on the cover made extravagant claims about fish loving them. I couldn’t see the attraction myself, but then again I don’t eat worms, flies or maggots on a daily basis. I knew that I’d need a huge weight to hold bottom in the tide and I’d decided that to try and do so with the rod I had was futile, the weight i needed would snap the rod like a twig as I cast, so I had brought my heaviest course fishing weight with me and attached it to the rig. This would mean that the whole rig would dance about on the floor of the ocean and make detecting bites more difficult; however I had fished this way in Ireland previously and had limited success. A fish snapping up your lure feels very different to the line simply being bobbed up and down in the current, so I was confident I would know when a fish had taken the bait.
I painstakingly readied the rod and line, put on my rig and weight, checked the bait was sitting on the hooks correctly, slid the bail arm back and held the line. I walked down to the water’s edge, regretting now that I hadn’t put my flip flops and shorts on so I could at least wade a little into the surf and I brought my rod back slowly and then quickly accelerated it forward in a perfect arc, sending the bait high over my head out towards the sea beyond the third wave.
Crack!
I knew that sound wasn’t good. I looked at my rod and it seemed fine. Didn’t it? I checked by the reel and worked my way up. It all looked ok and my bafflement at what the noise was lasted about 3 more seconds before I realised that what was left of my rod appeared in perfect working order. Sadly for me however, the top section of the rod had snapped off violently as I cast and had flown along with the line and weight into the sea. Cursing, I started to reel the line back in. Already it was covered in a liberal coating of seaweed and it wasn’t long before I came across the snapped top section of my rod, which had been busy on its unexpected break for freedom, seemingly collecting half a ton of seaweed around itself in some misguided attempt at camouflage.
Usually in such circumstances, a fisherman will tut and smile realising that the hand of fate had dealt them unkind cards on this occasion. They will gently disassemble their tackle, free the broken item from the line and painstakingly consider whether a repair can be made or whether the rod should officially be sent to the great fisherman in the sky for a kindly and respectful disposal. I took a different tack however, and in a fit of pique attacked the broken piece of rod with a set of fishing pliers, snapping the carbon fibre away from the line initially and then trying to snap my way through the eyes that were still attached to the line. Finding these a little tough to break through even with the pliers, especially while running the risk of snapping the line, I swore again and decided that this would have to do. I stripped the seaweed from the line and flung it out again.
That same action was replicated by the three of us for the best part of an hour and yet the only thing we found on our baits attracted was seaweed. Time and time again we’d cast in, reel in and barely seconds later the line would be covered in a thick green, almost gelatinous goo. With our patience now at breaking point and the beach surrounding us strewn with seaweed that we had liberated from the sea, we decided to call it a night. The Rossadillisk seas had been too tough for my humble telescopic rod and we quickly came to the conclusion, over a warming cup of tea back at the cottage, that as picturesque and perfect for fishing as the bay looked, without specialist local knowledge, we had more chance of catching a dyslexic yeti scuba-diving than any local fish.
Upon our return to the cottage we were all a little perturbed to see that Pepsi still was no better. Listless, miserable and still retching, she had been drinking water but seemed unable to even keep that down. This and the comparative good health of Cookie made us wonder if there was something unusual behind this. We decided that unless she showed signs of significant improvement in the morning, a trip to the vets would be in order. I just wondered, given the expensive nature of almost everything thus far on our “cheap week away”, how much this little visit would cost.
In addition to my bank manager, I added the Samaritans to my mobile’s speed dial.
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