Twenty something year old doing twenty something year old things

 I have a lockdown outfit and it is in this outfit that I have spent the last three days. Vogue would, I like to think, call it the perfect 'transition' piece from night to day and vice versa. The versatile garment I refer to is a red all in one piece, consisting of red harem style pants and a scoop neck top half. It has big pockets and makes me feel like an empowered genie emerged from a bottle. Underneath this fabulous number I wear a green and white pinstriped top with a triangular bib. I have been told, I think rudely, that this top is very 'POW' but I believe it is time for the stripe to be reclaimed.  I have daily walks in my romper, I call friends in this romper, I zoom in the romper and today I recorded a self tape in the romper--if I get the role I will be at risk of never changing out of it again for it will be my 'lucky' romper.  Last night, lounging in my romper, I spoke to a friend who lives on the other side of the world, she is from Oz and althoug

 "Somewhat hungover and somewhat sentimental, this month being the first anniversary Saigon's fall, or liberation or both, I wrote my aunt a letter to commemorate a year's worth of tribulation. " Once again I have returned to my hobby of picking a sentence I could never write and musing on it. The above is taken from The Sympathizer , written by Viet Thanh Nguyen. It is a book written by a Vietnamese author set just after the Vietnam/ American war--it flits between these two nations, and 'the fall' it documents is Saigon's takeover by the northern Viet Cong. I love this book like I love Vietnam and, particularly *sigh gon. Perhaps I chose this sentence as I am feeling particularly nostalgic from last night's late night/early morning phone call from a friend still living in the bustling heat of the city. He called me from a café which had the familiar blaring-music-played-too-loudly and the sounds of motorbikes' honking horns punctuating every pause

 Descartes was an interesting sorta fella wasn't he? 'Cogito ergo Sum'. I think therefore I am.  We exist because we are thinking things and therefore we are distinct from our bodies, non-thinking things. The mind can exist independently of the body and possibly go on ad nauseam. The mind pulls the levers of the body but not the other way around.  Writing as someone that currently feels dazed and brain dead I am pretty convinced that this cannot be true and that, in fact, my typing fingers have thoughts of their own. Electrical currents independent of my brain causing squiggly black characters to appear somewhat coherently onto a blank page. This 'coherence' is something for you, dear reader, to judge.  Another reason I stand in opposition to Descartes--clears throat importantly--is owing to my identity as a thespian. I am convinced that moving your body in strange and exciting new ways can cause strange and exciting new thoughts, ergo the body can influence the mi

Nostalgic memory of youth: My mother telling me not to watch too much TV in case I got "square eyes".  I spent a long time trying to find someone suffering from this affliction but strangely never did.  But ah,  the days when 'screen time' was seen as an unnecessary pleasure and square eyes the risk associated with it, akin to the 'monster under the bed'. Now it is a necessary evil. We buy special 'anti-blue light' glasses to allow us to continue to stare, squarely, into the screen in an intense 'who blinks first' match. I'm currently in one and will continue until four pm when I log off my duties of monitoring  psychology classes.                                                                        ***** The above section was written, as you can guess, well before the present --when I ironically find myself back at said screen. This time in 'blogger' capacity rather than classroom assistant. Who would have guessed that 'class

 In reverse order from yesterday, let us start with a sentence:  "I learned about being thankful a couple of years ago, from some experts--a conversation on facebook--and now I do it everyday; like in the way you're supposed to do yoga everyday but I don't, because the idea of yoga, perversely, makes me tense." I am drawn to this sentence mainly for the camaraderie I feel to the author, Caitlin Moran's, aversion to yoga. I have never been a yogi and possibly never will. I put this down to the same reason that I'm not into soup: food in my opinion should be solids and an activity should be active. If I want a meditative state, I'd probably go for a swim. I get bored easily or perhaps I'm just put off by the heavy breathing. I also like that she puts her find of 'being thankful' down to Facebook. Such beautiful irreverence--it makes me very thankful.  Another thing I am thankful for, is my child minding job. I spent a long couple of hours happily

 THIS IS NOW....A not so bold observation perhaps, but also the theme of an art competition which I have successfully enticed child A into entering. At first she was reluctant, "I'll never win"-- as she sulkily fished around for my praise (which I lavished). I am proud to say that she conceded and we have begun work on our entry. Soon after starting she made a 360 degree recovery in attitude. She now looks at me conspiratorially while whispering  confidently into t he  Papier-mâché,  "w e're gonna win this". I should probably say to her something along the lines of "it's not about winning but taking part", but really, I've got my eye on the prize too and heartily encourage this enthusiasm. It's also a project which will see me into two days of minding without having to resort to her favourite 'X-factor' whereby, on bad days I am made to sing and, on good days, must judge and comment on her various performances in my best Essex a

 I sit now, cheese toastie lying temptingly beside me and a fermentation vessel, loaded with a treacly sweet smelling liquid, sitting conspicuously in the corner of the room. I have begun to brew my first ever batch of beer: moved on from sourdough (SO lockdown one) to the harder stuff. Still involving yeast but this time a lot less infantile--my sourdough pet starter was very needy and ultimately ineffective, resulting in a distinctly flat loaf. I was, for a few wonderful hours, transported back to chemistry class of 12' as I dunked my hydrometer into the wort and, carefully avoiding the tricksy meniscus attempting to lead me down a false path, read its gravity .This will be important for future groggy mornings, serving as a sort of post-mortem, also known as the alcohol percentage.   The reality of this chemistry kitchen is a lot more slap dash than it may sound--jargon hides a multitude of brewing sins. The proof, as they say, will be in the pint. It may be ready in time for Val

 Brown paper packages tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things....I also like brown cardboard packages that arrive in post boxes. One of this kind arrived today, sent by a generous friend and containing Kiley Reid's Such a Fun Age which, I am told by same friend, is about a girl who is twenty six and so sarcastically explores the premise that this is "such a fun age". Something that, we both agree, is not always true and entirely not true at present thanks to a certain Ms. Rona. Yes, I am naming and shaming.  Blame game aside, today I met a delightful being in a beautiful pea green coat and clod in black leather boots with transparent heels. This mirage was my sister though she was very much in the flesh. We had planned to have a snow date though the snow had up and gone, apart from swirling back briefly to kiss us goodbye (as we said goodbye). She bought me a hot chocolate, "for takeaway"--important to let them know, remember--and we discusse

 My new friend and bike, Juliette, was looking particularly foxy this morning. She has been suited and booted with a new pannier rack to hold her side bag. The equivalent, I like to think, of a sassy handbag on the elbow. Her bag is red which perfectly off sets her glossy green coat. What's perhaps more worrying about my bike-doting is the fact that it was not isolation which tipped me over the edge. I humanized my bikes long before the lockdown crazies. That's right, back in BC. Reading Dervla Murphy's Full Tilt however confirms that I am not alone in this, she also names her bike and, rather inspiringly, cycles to India on her. Though she would probably go one step further and use the preposition 'with'. They, like Juliette and I, are a team. We've heard of man and dog--what about woman and bike?  The reason for the use of side bags on this sunny Saturday was to collect my organic vegetable order. This is not something I do often enough, mainly because I'

 What is your technique for bringing your space shuttles into land? I personally like to make sure that gear flaps are engaged and that my partner has established a safe landing zone. Whenever I visit those on planet B I also like to make sure that they're happy for us to potentially land in on them-- when things go tits up over here.  No, I'm not planning for the apocalypse. I am preparing for an audition. First things first.  Via the high tech 'zoom' space station, I will be guided back to planet earth and hopefully a role on the mission, IF I successfully and convincingly land the space shuttle 'Kitchen chair' into orbit. It sounds like a tough gig for this first time astronaut, but someone's got to do it. The launch window is fifteen minutes but I'm an eager recruit, keen to do right by my team. I also have that killer Capricorn energy --and if the stars align then the planets probably will too. Cross your fingers for me?  I watched a film last night

 Smashing is a smashing word isn't it? It seems to encompass excitement and brilliance but in a kick-ass, plate breaking kind of way. My obsession for this word today is inspired by an earlier workshop I took part in run by a theatre company called, drum roll,  Smashing Times--they are pretty kick ass. They use theatre and film as a tool for social change, underpinned by a "rights based approach" and with a commitment to promoting "social justice, peace, gender equality, human rights, positive mental health and anti racism". Phooo. Is that all?  Their workshop today, via the good aul' zoom, made me feel all fuzzy inside, with a sprinkling of empowerment. Before I go full blown 'american wellness blogger' on you, hear me out. I loved it because this is what you get from the darkened auditorium of a Theatre. I loved it because once again it was about going on a journey with total strangers. In a Theatre, all you see is the heads and shoulders of peopl

 And thus this great stupendous day: the dog is kicked out of its kennel.  Yes, it's Biden Harris! Despite Child A's mutterings of "jeeez, he is old", I for one think that this 'old' dog, might have some new tricks. It is time for a new era: shinier, happier and...heftier? It's gonna be a big one boys. It feels like NYE again but this time with a lot more flags and a lot less pop (think I might put hamburger on the menu). It is, as the man himself said, "a day of history and of hope". Most of us are probably hoping for the same thing...damn, you took the words right out of my mouth. That's right...for Lady Gaga's gold Mockingjay brooch a la The Hunger Games (am I wrong?) to be given the attention it deserves.  A quick googlay tells me that the brooch worn by Katniss Everdeen in the film signified "rebellion to the capitol". Maybe I've taken too many classes on intertextuality, but I'm interested in this textuality. Readi

Monopoly is amazing at its ability to turn, even the most unwilling, participants into fat cat capitalists. It's almost like it's inspired by real life socioeconomic systems or something?   Child A did not want to play. She grumbled, she groaned, she feigned ignorance. She used all the tricks. Myself and Child B hustled and convinced her--by her third dice throw she was exclaiming enthusiastically "I LOVE this game" and laughing uproariously at my pitiful rent take-ins.  Much to my chagrin, I was losing. Badly.  The game shall be continued when I return tomorrow. Waiting for me is a note, beside my reducing pile of money, reminding me that 'I owe' child B two pounds. No, he will not let me off. He's a tough landlord. Perhaps Herbert Simms or the Dublin corp. might step in to help me out?  We play this game whilst using over the top British accents--funny that--and sitting cross legged on the floor. The wolves of Grafton St.  Before becoming capitalists, my

 I believe people--animals included--are getting more tactical these days. It's the pandemic push to our grey matter. Walking along the street you notice people doing the 'think ahead' concentration face of how best to avoid the approaching human. What way are they going? What way should I step? Should I say hello? Maybe a nod whilst holding my breath?  All of these thoughts rushing through our brains at once, we filter through them; selecting the best possible POA and execute. It's done seamlessly, but the reality of the bombarding thoughts can be seen in the eyes. Everything is about the eyes now. In them we recognize an urgency and a desperation. We're all back in Maths class, steam coming out of our ears, in need of acknowledgement, not admonishment.  On a game of human dodge/ walk to the shop, I saw a huge fluffy dog, with elements of St. Bernard crossed with sheepskin rug, exercise similar levels of tactical thinking whilst taking its owner for some air.   It

 Today I did not buy the Sunday paper. I have been buying it religiously for the past three weeks, a part of my ritual in splendid isolation. It resulted in the newspapers taking up their own isolation, on one corner of the kitchen table. Half read and dejected. I did not want to put them through this pain anymore.  My morning was spent lounging in a red all in one romper suit--an Asian 'hostel chic' take on Andy Pandy-- and listening to the Dublin history podcast, Three Castles burning. After my 'mystery tour' of Dublin yesterday, I have found a renewed interest in its treasure chest of things, people and buildings. One person that the podcast covered at length was the architect Herbert Simms and his Art Deco social housing. Prior to listening to this podcast, Art Deco was firmly associated in my mind with the world of Great Gatsbys, 'bright young things', soviet propaganda and--if we were to loop it back to Dublin--Nassau Street's 'Café en Seine' b

 Spotted: coloured bunting flapping in the wind like Bhutanese prayer flags but spelling 'The Village Square' outside Rathgar's Presbyterian church. This church and its grounds had never seen so many visitors in the BC days, now we flock to its benches and granite stone steps for worship of a different kind. The worship of the social life--albeit the 'social distanced' life. I like this allusion to 'village' status which, before lockdown, had never seemed to ring true. A sense of place and community deepened through remoteness.  My Saturday was spent predominantly on the saddle of my bike for a 'mystery tour of Dublin', which works as follows: The tour participants each dream up two to three locations around the city which they would like to visit and show to the other tour-ist(s). You meet at a named location and set off to the first mystery spot. The rough geography of each stop can be shared the evening before--without giving away the golden ticke

 If you look at things from a completely different point of view, you'll see some pretty f**** weird stuff.  Example: Porridge. Just a morning meal to have with honey, a la three bears and a gold haired child? Aha, no. That's where you're wrong.  Porridge can be savoury and turned into a cheap fools risotto. I'm even going to tell you how, despite your disgusted face. Fry some garlic and chilli in a pot, throw in some black pepper and spinach-- then, if you're feeling fishy, put in some mackerel. At this point, you can add your oats. Toast your oats, stir your oats and finally, water your oats. Continue to water until the mix begins to look thick and creamy like, well, porridge and then, just to make things even creamier; crack some eggs into the mix like an absolute mad yolk. If you're really feeling adventurous, you could whisk some soy sauce into those eggs. Trust me, it's good. I garnished this with mozzarella and, as we're good eggs that support loc

Today was a day of wandering and wondering. I wandered along Dublin's River Dodder, wondering at it's pale ale frothiness, and vicariously around several of Ireland's islands. The latter was for research, turned procrastination. From what I can deduce, Ireland has fifteen inhabited islands. A significant amount more than what I had first guessed, only managing to pull The Aran Islands out from the top of my head. Another, which remains burnt into my memory is The Great Blasket, whose only inhabitants are its bloodthirsty midges.  Islands have always fascinated me, to prove this point, I was one of the 24k applicants that applied to live as 'caretaker' of An Blascaod  Mór. Apparently I am not so unique in this fascination. I informed an Australian friend that I planned to do this. She replied that "nothing" could make her "step foot on that island again". I thought this was rude. To clarify, this same Australian had camped with me amongst its ruin

Twitterature. I am not a Twitter-er but the idea of using this network to publish stories, drip fed 140 characters at a time, excites and intrigues me. Yes, it's a thing. Blogs sit in the shade, frumpy and plain beside this literary coyness. The chicken to Twitter's turkey fat. Tantalizing. Co-opting short attention spans and unsocial social networks for loudly publishing your fiction seems extremely foxy.  I know these foxy pieces of fiction exist, I've done my research, but classically, I cannot find any. One elusive example captured my imagination whilst researching this very subject. It is called "Some contemporary characters". Clever, very clever. The author is Rick Moody. What a character.  I know about the story, the premise of the story, but I cannot find THE story. That is to say, the tweets seem to have disappeared into cyber darkness.  Another major character in my life right now is child A who, upon my arrival yesterday, announced the following: "

The missile, unopened and extremely volatile. Ernest Hemmingway penned a six word story, why shouldn't I? His was: For Sale, Baby shoes, never worn.  They say it has a beginning and a middle and an end, like all good stories. I'm having difficulty identifying the beginning, it seems like a chicken and egg scenario. Maybe the beginning is an unborn child? Maybe the beginning is the act of putting up the sign. Is the end when the shoes are bought? Or is the end when the shoes are finally worn? Maybe it's neither of these things, maybe the sign stays there and nothing is done. It is passed by and considered but not acted upon. Like many things, it seems Hemmingway's words are particularly prescient now. We can learn from our past, we can improve and do better. Things forgotten suddenly hold new relevancy and power. Hemmingway's words... or a state report, out in the open, revealing dark secrets and unsettling truths.  Leaky pipes are always untimely and never desirable

 Today feels like the day when sh** starts to get real again. Or is it just Monday blues?  Life is catching up and the jobs, emails and calls that need to be made have come back to haunt me. At the same time my heart begins to beat a little faster. If there was a heart monitor plugged into me from the Christmas period until now, today would be the day that the doctors and nurses throw up their hats in celebration and relief as the cadaver starts to show life. The stuffed turkey begins to shift and the lady is a-leaping.  I have begun researching in earnest-- or as earnest as one can be with a remnant mashed potato brain of Christmas-- the subject of Flash Fiction and am acquainting myself with the work of Lydia Davis. I will be teaching a five week term in this course to teenagers, beginning in early February. It is a Saturday gig and the course description proclaims:  "Two golden rules of writing are ‘Always leave the reader wanting more’ and ‘Edit, edit, edit’.  Flash   fiction

 The slow languorous Sunday has begun. I woke up and, after making my breakfast of coffee and porridge (garnished with a generous helping of peanut butter), gobbled the rest of Ghost. I have been reading this novel pretty compulsively since I began. The words wash through me like honey, sweet and easy. I do not feel enlightened after each page, but brightened, yes.  Finished and tossing this to one side, ghosting it like the characters it features, I made my way down to Tesco's bottle bank. Empty wine bottles clanking conspicuously in my rucksack. I have had quite a collection built up since roughly mid November. Bags finally emptied they smell like bad breath the morning after a night out--a memory of how things were in the BC days. I never thought I'd be romanticizing hangover breath, but there you go.  Bottles chucked, I suddenly experienced a moment of regret. Should I be keeping these? Don't worry, I am not experiencing attachment syndrome to my used wine bottles. For

 Once upon a time, on a caffeine fuelled wander of the Georgian side streets of frozen south Dublin, I came across a grocer. It was one of those hybrid grocers which also seems to cater for the needs of aesthetically driven hipsters. I mean no offence by this as I am also a prime target.  Sniffing around the goods with my friend, we were drawn to a table at the back displaying such wares as a knitted 'beer glove' and, most criminally of all, a walkman shaped 'Holibops sound effects box'. This evil box of inane corporate, commercial tosh was advertising itself as "the perfect gift for a terrible 2020". I am trying to work out which aspect of this creation annoyed me more, the term 'holibops' which, to borrow from the children I mind, is like "so cringe" or the fact that this pandemic, as if it hadn't already spread enough harm, is now spurring on an entirely new type of pandemic: cov-ets--covid themed gadgets. Which, I expound, should not 

 aljfdskfjslkajlknvaskvd;sfsdnvz;kvsz  That's from my fingers being too numb to type. Word on the street is that it will reach -8 degrees this weekend. The cycle home from work was arctic explorer level of commute. Reaching Rathgar --I can almost see the front cover now. At one stage I went clean over a patch of ice, after that I decided to take it handy and chiiiillll. Quite literally.  Minding kids today meant more excitement and rough games. I'm not able for them. Whilst preventing Child A from scoring a frisbee point by being a general pain in the a****  (squawking and monkey impressions) I was rewarded with a frisbee in the side of the head. Seeing stars and everything else in between I laughed it off. Child B, god bless him, was heavily advocating for my penalty shot but I wouldn't take it.  I'm a champ, it's true.  Despite not being the most obviously into law and order, these children are huge fans of the sitcom Brooklyn Nine-Nine set in a New York Police de

 I seem to have a habit of stockpiling all of the things I need to do, however enjoyable and fulfilling they might be, to the very end of the day. Today was one of those days, hence sitting down to write this, fuzz brained, at half eight in the evening. I have just come off a zoom meeting (you may be familiar?) but rather than the usual screen fatigue and awkwardness that seems to be the order of the day with these 'multiple floating heads on a screen socializing/working/schooling/everything-ing' I emerge excited and energized. I am working with these other heads on a collaborative and participatory, soon to take shape-ory, film project. Adding fuel to the bizzarreness of current times, none of us have ever met in the flesh.  Before being a head on a zoom call however I spent my day as a- somewhat- whole body in reality. I woke up, delighted, to a light smattering of snow about as thick as a layer of dandruff and watched from my window as kids with plastic spades scraped what w

 Back to work day. My work during lockdown has been, most consistently, childcare. Jobbing in the often misunderstood 'arts', the effect of Covid was for obvious reasons, pretty grim. Child minding, I am incredibly grateful for. It offers excellent job security and the craic is, as they say, mighty. Today we were playing a highly competitive game of Lollipop Brick.  Ah, you don't know this game I hear you say? Well, let me explain: it involves a basketball hoop, shed wall, rugby ball and 2-3 very loud and hyperactive kids. I am including myself in that category. One team is shooting the ball into the hoop, the other--myself and child A--shoot against the shed wall. In order to score a point, it is imperative that once the ball has hit off the shed, a member of that team touches it. This is harder than it seems especially when child B arrives like a bulldozer charging in between the hitter and the shed, intercepting that crucial 'touch back' at stunning speed and vol

 And on the third day she wrote again... Once again I have food and coffee to report of. A date was arranged and we met outside Jolin's Vietnamese coffee house on Clanbrassil street near Portobello. How is it that I have been separated from my dearest Vietnam, *sigh-gon,  for a year and a half yet have only just visited this glory, complete with a bona fide Vietnamese owner, originally from Saigon? I guess, as they say, it takes a lockdown to 'get in touch' with your locality. I ordered the 'classic' Vietnamese coffee. It was not the classic however as I decided that I could not brave the iced version-- my fingers would probably provide that touch anyway. Cycling over to this joint (definite 'food blogger' credentials for using that word) I had been rehearsing how to order it in Vietnamese..."Cho em mot chai bia?" No, not beer--coffee.."cho em mot  cà phê  " brilliant. I'm a local.  In the end, seeing the menu entirely in English and

Sitting down to write this, entry 2 of the lock blog, I am at my kitchen table facing three tin can lanterns hung up last night. I am ridiculously proud of these creations which were made by filling empty chick pea cans with water and freezing them. Once frozen I could bash holes to my hearts content without creating dents. I did this as an activity before Christmas with the child I mind. She told me, whilst enthusiastically yielding the hammer, that this was "very satisfying". I made a mental note to only do this with her when she was in a good mood. That glint in her eye was worrying.  I met my sister this morning outside the ever hipster Bread 41 for a coffee and pastry. I ordered my flat white 'for takeaway' before realising how blatantly obvious this was. Holly laughed at me. "You haven't been broken yet". I think it may have been my most endearing moment and I have decided that from now on, whatever the level of lockdown, I shall always order my t

It's a new dawn, it's a new year and... here I find myself, once again, writing on the advent of a new lockdown. This one, for me, feels slightly different to the rest as I face into it alone. My flatmate will not arrive until February and with rocketing case numbers, heading back to Tipperary would be like traveling around with said rocket in my pocket.  In a state of productivity and insanity busting planning, last night I ambitiously vowed to keep a lockdown blog--previously I had cattily wondered if these should be called 'boredom logs' but I sincerely hope that this will not be the case. No, no, no, I shall be the embodiment of productivity, inspiration and creativity--the lady of the manor--and shall emerge from this period more enlightened and 'at one' with myself and, let's be honest, these four walls. Maybe I should even consider going full blown Gwyneth Paltrow goop on this. Given my name, this would make it... poop? Tempting I must say.   The idea