Wednesday, March 28, 2012

50 Good Things: 2012

1. Wine sales.
2. Powerful drying.
3. Sun Kil Moon.
4. Regina's transplant.
5. Guinness' own brand dark chocolate.
6. Nespresso.
7. Upcoming trip to Amsterdam.
8. The Forgotten Waltz.
9. Recent good news from the cranky neurosurgeon.
10. Goldmaster's recovery.
11. Criminal Minds.
12. The new sheets.
13. Garlic bread.
14. The warm weather, before people start giving out about the warm weather, before the wet weather.
15. The reopening of the Irish Times short story competition.
16. Staropramen.
17. Jeff Stelling.
18. Increased hours in the good workplace.
19. Hope.
20. Windy Arbour.
21. My first attempt at a lasagne from scratch.
22. Golf.
23. The Luas.
24. Breaking Bad.
25. Parmesan.
26. Avoca village.
27. Lionel Messi.
28. My recent 50 Bad Things entry, which was a fuckload easier to write.
29. Sweeney's of Dame Street, with herself.
30. Moroccan chicken/rack of lamb, cous cous, hummus, pitta breads.
31. A particular type of bread you can only get in the AM:PM shop on Harold's Cross bridge.
32. This morning, waking at 10am, with nowhere to be.
33. Tomorrow morning, waking at 10am, for a walk around town.
34. Sandwiches that include mustard, American or wholegrain.
35. Dún Laoghaire.
36. The ice cream shop on Grafton Street that stays open past pub time.
37. Peristalsis above 70%.
38. Triple chocolate Mars Bars.
39. Dylan Moran.
40. My accession to the boss of everything, and my immediate veto of the word (anything)gate.
41. Lisbon.
42. The fish and chips shop beside O'Flaherty's pub, Dingle Town.
43. The music of Burial.
44. Family Guy.
45. Jack Wilshere.
46. Hotch.
47. Empire, before reading it and discovering it's mostly Channing Tatum-based.
48. The Fiver.
49. Being inside when you absolutely, like, HAVE to be outside enjoying the weather.
50. The Screen cinema, College Green.

Monday, March 12, 2012


This is what happens when you try to write a blog about the weekend, from the worried 8am start in work on Friday to the getting home on Sunday, shattered, full of Supermacs and residual anxiety.

Everything comes back jumbled.

From walking down the hospital corridor and the alcoholic hand gunk, to the old men wheezing on their backs. A hotel mattress so soft that we couldn't help but meet in its middle, and tiny squabbles that never turned septic.

From my Dad's finest Brendan O'Connor impersonation, to the fact that he needed a shave, a hug, a kiss and some fresh pyjamas.

From my colleague, my friend in work, who took on my shift at a moment's notice and offered me one of his in return, when he didn't have to. A man who fakes his own parsimony.

The roundabouts, the incessant roundabouts between Castletroy and the Regional, and her willingness to go wherever I needed, whenever I needed, giving me whatever it was that I could use of hers.

The hotel bar that we were too tired to drink in and the chronic sameness of the towel racks on the wall.

The mushroom soup from Avoca, for my Mam, so she wouldn't have a packet of Tayto for her lunch again, and my Dad telling me about the man that recognised him in the hospital corridor, the man that went to school with him in Vincent's and hadn't seen him since 1965.

The Chinese takeaway eaten hungrily and the absence of any drink at all, talk of who'd been in to see him and how Ger had hurt her eye.

A clicker going click every time the words 'I'm fine' were uttered and nobody falling for any of that craic.

The distraction of American guests and handed out toffee cake, hoovered out rooms and dusted down shelves, eyes giving people away, and kisses on the head for each of my family.