Twenty something year old doing twenty something year old things

 This evening marks my last as a solo agent/lady of the manor/ isolation queen; tomorrow the age of 'Rathgor Roomies' shall commence. Above me still hangs a handmade and helpful A4 poster, 'Phoebe's lockdown guide to solo living'. Rule #1"The lockdown blog--a study in dramatic writing. Make a 'fridge trip' exciting". Whether or not this blog was a study in 'dramatic writing' I cannot comment. Certainly, I do not recall resorting to writing about fridge trips. This, I feel must be rectified:  Shaking like a small needy jack Russell she made her way over to the chrome grey box and opened its curved door. The glaring white light bathed her reddened eyes as they roved desperately over its assorted contents. Her nose twitched. It was not detecting the much needed scent despite being well trained in this mission. There was a smell alright, but flared nostrils failed to pick out the rose amongst a multitude of thorns. Jalapenos, dips, cheese, mil...

 A wet and grey day to begin the first of a new month. Grim, unsolicitous skies not withstanding, it is a lucky day. Why is it a lucky day? Because despite waking up late on my day off and remembering at ten thirty AM "crap, the BINS!!" they were somehow still collected. Silver linings. Or should I say, bin linings?  My wet laundry was finally hung up to 'dry', it now hangs sodden like wet rags on the line--mocking me.   I spent the day scrubbing, glad tidings for the arrival of my new flatmate. My hair was in curlers, the vacuum was on and a cigarette dangled from the corner of my lips. Hint, only one of those statements is true. Conclusion: domestic goddess virtues are not all lost. A day of spring cleaning for the arrival of the first day of spring. It was also a day of staring blankly at a power point presentation due to be used during a lesson on Saturday. I productively added pretty pictures in between taking compulsive sips of coffee. It is a fact that drinkin...

 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 ir...

 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 ti...

 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...

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.  ...

 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...

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...

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...

 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. Fo...