From the Old Country

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’m sitting by a roaring fire.  It’s dark and drizzly outside, and various members of my family are asleep in various rooms around the house.  I am HOME – Dublin, Ireland.  It’s FANTASTIC.  I sort of wish the children were here – they’d love it, I have that totally nonsensical parent thingy of missing them slightly when I am away from them  - but if they were here I would probably be cooking or driving or organising,  and almost  certainly nagging, and more importantly I would not have had three packets of crisps and two G&Ts for lunch, or be contemplating similar for my “tea”.  So far – since Thursday – I have:  had 1 gin-laiden afternoon tea (which broke up at 1130pm); taken sneaky over-the-shoulder pics of Bono and Andrea Coor (it’s Dublin – of course  I’m going to bump into Bono at some point); had 3 coffee / breakfast catch-ups with friends; had 1 night out with my school friends; been to 2 supermarkets where I behaved suspiciously towards all the fabulous produce; run into old friends here there and everywhere (Dublin is small and sociable); had 1 gin-soaked evening with one of my  most dear friends;  realised that jet-lag is something which only happens if you have small children in tow; realised that gin is my drink of choice (no hangover! Well, not one which turns me into an imbecile for two days); and bought enough Cadbury’s chocolate, Pear’s soap and Tayto crisps to open a particularly delightful, although poorly-stocked, shop.

Before I jauntily skipped onto the airplane a few days ago, there was much list-making and errand-doing, and organising of home and child.  I had a birthday and got a bit pissed (on wine – worse, champagne – because I didn’t know about the gin thing, and as a result the next day was seven layers of hell) and ended up in some dodgy basement club rockin’ (in as much as a middle-aged woman can – or should – rock)  with a roomful of the teeniest tiny people I have ever seen.  I felt like I was in Lilliput.  Malaysian Lilliput.

When I get back – although I am half-contemplating never going back;  they seem to all be getting on beautifully without me (which is both infuriating and delightful)  – I have the mad rush of end-of-term to look forward to (HAHAHAHA) including two end-of-term class parties within 3 hours of landing and then about 17 weeks of school holidays to survive. 

In the meantime however I have reruns of Only Fools and Horses, and Irish confectionary (the best in the world) and over-heated houses and arse-bollocking cold (if I bother going outside).   But of course I’ll go outside – there are friends to see and cheese to paw in shops and Bono to ignore in bars.  Obviously.